


Coeur d'Enfants

by lavenderforluck



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Additional Warnings In Author's Note, Boarding School AU, Child Abuse (mentioned), Dubious Consent, F/M, Language, M/M, Major character death - Freeform, Minor Violence, OC character - Freeform, Off screen abortion, Sexual Content, Toxic Relationships, Underage - Freeform, Unhealthy Relationships, child abuse (depicted), excessive alcohol use, excessive drug use, gross privilege, health complications, non-major character death, one instance of domestic violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-04
Updated: 2014-05-24
Packaged: 2018-01-21 23:01:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death, Underage
Chapters: 6
Words: 126,859
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1567187
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lavenderforluck/pseuds/lavenderforluck
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>As Marx said of the bourgeois class: all that is solid melts into air. St. Peter's verse.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Louis

**Author's Note:**

> Please heed the warnings at the beginning of each chapter, as well as the tags.
> 
> This is dedicated to every person who reminded me that they wanted to hear the end of this story. Especially Sophie, who was wonderfully aggressive about letting me know. Thank you.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter most importantly contains underage relationships, and sex between someone who is not of age in the uk (the age is 16) and someone who is, within a college-school setting, and the dubious consent warning stands strongly here. There is also underage drinking, drug taking, and generally questionable morale and behavior.
> 
> The relationships in this chapter can be read as toxic and manipulative, and I would advise they are the read that way.

autumn 2011 / spring 2012

 

louis’ fingers feel tingly and his throat is hoarse and aches. he keeps stringing along notes as if they were appearing before he played them, in a motion so fluid that it’s like the sound was tangible. his music instructor, professor reynolds, claps his hand once and louis ceases. his chest pangs from the exertion, and his saxophone rests against his shoulder. it’s still warm.

“you still have a bit to pick up the end, the last four stanzas sound sloppy,” professor reynolds remarks from his perch. he slings his coat on and tucks the stool by the piles of sheet music on the desk. “see you day after next, mr. tomlinson.”

“good night, professor,” louis slings his school jacket over his shoulders, then his sax around his back, and pulls a fag out of his pocket. he exits the music hall and steps out into the brisk, october air, inhaling a deep drag making his way to his dorm hall.

being in his final year at st. peter's academy for musically gifted boys really meant he was nearly the fuck out of a self-righteous posh school with snotty teachers and lots of finks who happen to play the clarinet or some shit since the age of three.

louis is very much done with pompous bullshit, and he doesn’t bother to put out his cigarette as he makes his way up to his room. passersby greet louis with a “tommy, my boy!”

or, “cheers, lad!”

or, "alright, tomlinson?"

his cigarette runs dry. he flicks it, fingers already itching for another one.

his roommate, liam, is already settled neatly on his bed, looking through a rather large book of contemporary musical history. he spares a glance at louis before rolling his eyes, muttering, “not everyone likes smelling your dirty habits.”

louis flashes him a devilish grin. “sorry poppy, wish i could help you."

he kicks off his white runners and pulls out a neat spliff from his desk drawer, lighting it. liam sighs, pushing at the window from his position on the bed, letting the breeze sweep in. it chills louis’ skin. he likes it. smoke exits his mouth in spirals, and he runs a hand through his already mussed hair. he presses the play on his stereo and sohn fills the room. a few minutes later, zayn pokes his head in.

“up for a smoke, yeah?” he leaves his military jacket on the hook by their door. louis sneers at the sight of it; the summer before year twelve zayn had gone to america and bought it like some andover arsehole. he looks downright ridiculous when he wears it with his school jacket, but louis can’t give everyone a lesson in smart dress. anyhow, zayn liked to break rules. there wasn't a sport st. peter's had that zayn couldn't get out of, even though sport was mandatory, and for good reason: zayn has been smoking since they were year eight. zayn takes the spliff from louis, and much to louis' chagrin, begins to produce clever smoke rings. he can hear chatter outside, kids being loud and raucous, their exasperated head boy shouting threats from his door. louis stares at the pile of homework near his bed like it’s cursed.

“what you are saying to the party on friday?” zayn coughs, running his fingers along his pretty jawbone. louis catches liam’s distracted stare. he tucks the vicious urge to humiliate his roommate away and shrugs nonchalantly to zayn. there is tension in the room, tension that doesn’t include louis. he watches them, curious, but doesn’t comment on it.

“suppose i’ll show up. nothing too spectacular to do otherwise, really.”

before he decides to call it a night, louis takes the piss out of liam for being such a headcase, and liam blushes before getting his feathers ruffled and tersely saying, goodnight, tomlinson, you fucking dickface. louis feels pretty contented after that, staring at the plastic stars on the ceiling some bugger put on years before louis lived here, and falls asleep.

 

-

 

at the party that weekend, louis is bored and liam is drunker than usual, his school tie slung loose around his neck as a girl from st. mary’s tugs at it impatiently. she’s annoying and louis wishes they could get rid of her, but he figures giving liam something to regret might be good for him.

louis’ not drunk enough to be bothered. he’s spent fifteen minutes chatting up a girl with cherry red lips, and he’s more than grateful when she cuts to the important part of the conversation, pressing a tablet of e to his tongue, grinning like an imp. he swallows it, before taking her behind the barn and fucking her. she tastes like vodka, something citrus, something sad.

it doesn’t exactly die down, but the night goes cold, and as everyone huddles closer to make out, drink more and be absolutely atrocious, louis fancies himself a walk and figures no one will notice if he’s gone. he takes his flask with him: alcohol is fine company in his book.

he sits on a dry patch of sand and rocks by the creek that runs through the woods, and it’d be picturesque if louis allowed himself to think such thoughts. instead, he watches the river flow down and around the bend, sipping on vodka, pretending not to feel the burn.

he was enjoying a nice, albeit drunkenly, reprieve from all the fucks he goes to school with, when he’s interrupted by some twat with a cigarette. he can smell the cigarette before he sees the boy, who then comes into a view a moment later. he seems unaware of his company, so louis drinks him in. a nice bum, for sure, with his low-ridden corduroys and his little dirty tennies, a printed sweater wrapped lazily around his shoulders like he took a note out of a posh boy’s book.

“‘scuse me,” louis calls raucously, and the boy spins around, almost dropping his fag. he has curly hair, possibly some of the curliest he’s ever seen, and wide, saucer shaped eyes.

“trying to have a little moment, do you mind?” louis catcalls, and expects the boy to scatter. instead, the boy cocks an eyebrow at him and takes a long drag. smoke seeps from his devilish mouth in opaque clouds, obscuring part of his face.

“sorry, didn’t realize you own the patch, here,” he snarls waspishly, then cocks his head. “you go st. peter’s, don’t you?”

louis scoffs. “brilliant one, aren't you. yes, i go to the school. i’m assuming you’re going to be starting off here come fall?”

the kid smiles cheekily. "i already go there. year eleven. got my GCSE'S this year.”

“really,” louis may be a little drunk, still feeling the possessive urge to touch from the e in his veins, but he’s still a notch better at hiding his reaction. “as fascinating as that is, princess, i really must ask you to leave. i'm on a mission to be minced till morning.”

the kid laughs and louis is mildly surprised at the tremor that runs through his body in response. he doesn’t tremor. but his laugh ignites something, loud and slightly sarcastic as it is. there is an echo of innocence that reminds louis of his little sisters.

“again, i really don’t think you have privy over this spot.”

“privy. who says that? get out of here. piss off,” louis rolls his eyes and takes another sip. everything burns going down  and that feeling is more like home than louis ever wants to admit. a beat, and the boy lights another fag. “on second thought.” louis gestures sloppily. “stay and have a chat. bum me a smoke.”

“you’re just a lovely centre of self-entitlement, aren’t you?” he surmises cheekily, and louis doesn’t know if it’s the alcohol but he’s taken aback by how much cheek this boy is giving him. a minted, beautiful teenage boy he’s never even seen before, despite only five hundred students attending st. peter’s. it’s easy to weed out those who have parents to foot the yearly 30,000 pound tuition.

when he moves closer, louis notices that his eyes are green and glowing in the streams of light from the lamps on the barn a distance over. louis takes the cigarette and inhales deep, keeping eye contact with his enigmatic stare as the smoke filters out of his mouth. the boy’s eyes flicker down to louis’ lips. louis thinks, got you.

“i’m harry,” the boy hands him the fag again and flashes a smile that leaves louis slightly dazed. “or haz.”

“louis tomlinson,” it must be the lights, the music and the smoke, and every bit of alcohol that is thrumming under his skin, the fading e he took, the nights he has stayed up, the creepy-crawling thrill of defiling this young beautiful thing he has in his grasp, filling that void in his heart, destroying everything but his hands - it must entice him, because louis says, “come back to the school with me.”

 

-

he presses harry against the door of his dormitory, looming slightly over him. the boy’s face is flushed and beautiful, and louis wants to wreck it. he takes his cheeks into his palms and presses his lips to harry’s, who tastes like vodka and cranberry and naivete. louis can’t get enough, he can’t taste enough.

 

harry whimpers under his touch as louis pushes him onto the bed. he falls like he’s already pliant and languid, looking through his lashes like he’s daring louis to come closer, to taste, to touch. louis pulls off his shirt, ignores the moon’s loving glow against his skin, and presses his lips to a pressure point on harry’s neck. his skin is hot.

louis takes his khakis off inch by inch. he grins devilishly. “nice little pants you’ve got here, haz.” harry flushes deeply, but he grins too, like a boy who’s been caught out doing something absolutely horrid, and breathes like he can't expand his lungs. the smell of youth and wanton attraction is rolling off of him in waves. louis snickers, fingers brushing over his cock, a hard thick line under his boxers.

“oh, shut up,” he breathes out impatiently. he grabs at louis’ hair suddenly, desperately. louis flinches back, grunting, and pins his arms above his head.

“no,” he whispers, hearing the hint of danger and humour tangle together in his tone. “i’m in charge. not you.”

harry keens, trying to find friction and receiving none in return as he looks on dazedly, pupils blown like louis is something to be worshipped. louis keeps eye contact as he hooks his fingers under his boxers, sliding them down, on to the ground. he presses his forearms into the curve of harry's knees and makes space between his long, gangly legs, louis’ heart beating harder at the sight of harry’s cock, leaning against his hip, pink and swollen.

“keep your hands there,” louis whispers, kissing the jut of harry’s hipbone, teeth scraping gently against the skin.

harry nods heavily, keeping his hands clenched around one of the bedposts, a pink flush spreading from the apples of his cheeks down his neck, across his chest. louis kneels down further, keeping harry’s legs spread wide, and takes a long, generous swipe of his tongue against the tip, like he’s tasting. he teases him, draws it out, keeps it restrained. he wants harry to be frustrated, to be impatient with it. out of his peripheral, he sees harry throw his head back.

heat and sex are thick in the air, a powerful perfume that makes him feel reckless and invincible. he kisses the tip of harry’s dick, before taking him fully into his mouth, swallowing against him. louis is no beginner to giving head, to taking what he wants, to rendering people useless - it’s just more fun when it’s with someone as pretty as harry, someone who doesn’t mind being manipulated, being told what to do. harry’s thighs quiver under louis’ forearms.

he begs, “fuck, louis,” and louis grins at his incoherence, tonguing at the vein on the underside of his cock, before bringing the tip into his mouth again and suckling softly. louis can feel his own dick pressing insistently against his pants. the need to get himself off burns stronger than keeping look of unadulterated pleasure spreading across harry's face. his cheeks are flushed, bright pink, like he’s been pinched.

louis slips off his boxers and presses his dick along harry’s shaft, groaning as he slips against the pre-come and saliva, almost giving into the friction there. instead he has a goal, so reaching as far as he can, his fingers slip around a tiny bottle from the mess of his bedside drawer , and he doesn’t hesitate to slick fingers up, coating them with lube and then pulling harry farther down the bed, spreading his legs. he presses in one, feeling the protest of the tight ring of muscle.

“fuck -” the bambi look on harry's face is almost comical. his brow furrows at the intrusion of louis’ fingers, his mouth letting out a low whine as louis starts to curl his finger, making sure harry is getting use to the intrusion, before slipping in a second finger. “what are you -?”

“you look good,” louis brushes harry’s hair out of his eyes, kisses his eye in an almost tender way. louis wants to allow himself to have this moment, because he feels alive and fucked with emotion, with want. this boy is truly beautiful, all spread out with bright red lips and moon-shaped eyes, hair curling around his ears. he looks like would break under louis’ fingers, louis finds that he likes that a lot. maybe too much.

harry starts to move back against louis’ hand, his ankle coming to wrap around the back of louis’ thigh, encouraging him on. he whines when louis pulls out his fingers, his breathing heavy and laboured.

“shh,” louis shushs him, covering his mouth over harry's to silence him, swallowing the sounds he makes. louis rummages for a condom, his dick hanging out obscenely, precum dribbling at the head. he slides it on, looking down at the long, slender expanse of harry’s body, the flushed chest, neck, and cheeks, the way harry looks back up at him, eyes barely open.

louis slaps harry’s thigh to get him to spread his legs wider as he hovers over him, fingers scrambling down to press him open again, his dick edging closer to harry’s hole. he slips in, feeling harry take him, the searing, intoxicating heat of it. harry closes his eyes as he chokes on his own moan, looking somewhere caught between pain and gratification. louis eases out, waiting for harry to adjust, before thrusting back in with one swift movement.

harry twists his fingers into louis’ hair, pulling him down closer, so they’re sharing the same air, their bodies a messy tangle of limbs, skin and sweat. louis has to bite his lip from crying out, a swooping feeling low in his gut. he gets a rhythm going, fucking into harry like he wants to leave a mark, and harry takes it. all he can do is take it.

louis can feel his orgasm building, and because he isn’t a complete fucking tosser, he starts to pump around harry's dick with his hand, until harry’s incessant panting and louis' bitten back moans are the only sounds filling the stagnant, smoked stained air.

“god - ,” harry chokes, throwing his head back against the mattress, his spine arched like a violin bow, spilling hotly into louis’ hand, he whimpers quietly, like it’s an accident. louis thrusts into him until he feels himself coming too, some minutes later, his muscles shaking with it. all he can see are tiny stars and hear blood rushing in his ears.

“fuck,” louis groans, pulling out and discarding his own mess in liam's bin. he can deal with that later. he lies back without touching harry, chest heaving, and decides he really fucking wants a cigarette. lighting two in his mouth, he passes one to harry, who looks relieved for it, his face still pink and slightly glowing. louis decides, fuck it,  just a trick of light. this boy isn’t all that beautiful, he convinces himself. in fact, he’s kind of outlandish looking.

louis ashes the fag as harry gathers up his clothes, putting them on piece by piece. it makes louis wonder if it is harry’s way of trying to hint that he wants to stay. he feels guilty for not offering. louis deftly ignores this feeling, lights another cigarette, and doesn’t bother opening the window this time. he know their head boy will have a field day may he smell it, but louis has already decided he doesn’t care. harry, with his moon eyes, attempts to grin as cheekily as he did down by the creek, but perhaps he is too exhausted, too thoroughly fucked, and it falls flat between them.

“see you then, louis.”

“tomlinson.”

“what?” he turns around, perhaps expecting something more, something like why don’t you stay here tonight. louis feels a harder edge enter his voice just at the thought of offering that.

“no one calls me louis, they call me tomlinson, you know, my last name. or tommy.”

“what is the point of your first name, then?” harry asks.

“who the fuck knows?” louis shrugs, trying to remain indifferent. “sorry, only my actual mates call me louis.”

“oh,” harry says softly, a sour expression on his face now. “what’s wrong with louis?”

louis rolls his eyes, “nothing, you twat. i just prefer, since we don’t really know each other, that you don’t call me that.”

harry’s eyes flash darkly at louis. he nods like he understands, biting the inside of his cheek. “sure, that’s not a problem,” he says quietly, and for the first time louis can detect the slightly hint of an accent, of something not distinctly english. he wants to ask, but knows better not to.

louis nods and looks out onto the vacant fields below, watching as the odd student crawls back onto campus, slinking low as not to get caught. he smokes another cigarette, sitting very still on the sill of window, unable to think of anything but what just occurred. for the first time, louis goes to bed with a foreign feeling lying low in his stomach. harry's cherry vodka-and-french-cologne smell is still on the sheets. louis pretends he can't smell it.

 

-

 

on monday morning, louis attends to each of his classes in the order that his schedule dictates. he isn't late, instead strolling casually along in with the rest of his peers, perhaps a little early. his teachers look up in thinly disguised surprise that he isn’t coming in the door as soon as the bell rings. louis knows that his usual near-tardiness aggravates them to no end since they can’t technically give him detention.

calculus, intro to music IV, french IV, english composition, band comp IV, and a strange, unnecessary art class he was somehow talked into taking by his academic advisor. he doesn’t have another lesson with professor reynolds until tomorrow afternoon, but louis fancies himself chucking art to go spend some time wallowing with his sax in one of the music rooms. the school, elaborate in early georgian architecture is massive for such a small student body, fitted with an ancient chapel, a music hall, dormitories, an unused bath house, stables and the main dining hall, surrounded by smaller buildings where his classes took place. louis knew every fountain, every passage, every trail and cobblestone sidewalk, every alumni donated monument st. peter's has ever had. it's the only home, he's unwilling to admit, he feels he has.

he plays his sax until his fingers hurt and his throat is hoarse from all the cigarettes he had smoked the night before, but it doesn’t erase the pathetic ache in his gut.

 

-

 

the week goes by in a daze and louis thinks, fuck this shitty feeling, fuck every tiny little piece of shit who looks my way, fuck all of you. fuck fuck fuck.

 

-

 

by friday, there’s another party louis is supposed to go to. he actually hesitates when liam asks him. he feels himself blush, realizing liam’s raised eyebrows were an indicator that he noticed, too. this hermit attitude louis has suddenly adapted has not only left liam confused, but has some of the boys wondering if louis is deathly ill. or has dropped out. not that he cares.

“christ, li, what are you staring at?” louis blurts out, grabbing a fag and lighting it.

liam shrugs his shoulders, smirking slightly. “nothing, you just didn’t say anything.”

“do i have to say anything? honestly, of course i’m going, don’t be a twat.”

“i wasn’t sure, lou. and for the love of god, please stop smoking in here so much, you’re giving me awful headaches.”

“cry me a river.”

“i just might,” liam squares his shoulders, palms curled under his bed frame. he tries to look louis in the eye.

louis regards him suspiciously, and spits out: “what?”

liam opens his mouth but then closes it, looking like a goddamn fish. they’re interrupted by the one of the first string trumpet players, niall, who looks cross but also slightly dazed like he's just finished off a spliff by himself, which knowing niall, is very likely.

like zayn, he’s a year below louis and liam. usually, louis didn’t really put up with having year twelve's or below in his room, but they're what liam likes to call friends and what louis usually just surmises as mates, and he just barely puts up with the lot of them. they’ve grown up together, and now he can’t shake them. they’re like limbs.

“you,” he points to louis, “missed rowing. what the fuck?” niall’s accent is thick and curls into his throat as he speaks, but in a way, louis kind of likes the irish lilt of his voice. as much as he might admire the way niall speaks, he is in no way worried about missing rowing. honestly, fuck rowing.

“didn’t feel up to it,” louis quips, and then pouts his lip, tweaking his voice to sound extremely pompous. “over-conditioned my hair today.”

“you’re a absolute shit eating muff-diver, you know that, tomlinson?” niall laughs, running a hand through his messy blonde hair, his bare legs flicked with mud and grass.

“takes one to know one, horan. how's your sister, speaking of muffs?” louis quips, giggling as niall flings him the bird as he walks out.

liam rolls his eyes and falls back onto his bed, opening to page four hundred billion in his history text like the good little boy that he is. louis stares at his work and sighs, giving in to the mountains of course work he has to finish. louis flips through his copy of hamlet, tries to read, but only ends up lighting another cigarette, mostly to annoy liam.

 

-

 

at the party, louis ends up sitting in one of the many fields near the barn, arms wrapped loosely around his knees, his cable sweater thick and woolly. the alcohol makes him feel warm against the chilly, late autumn breeze, and for the second time in a month he’s caught himself drinking alone. he sighs outwardly. this is getting a little pathetic. he’s louis tomlinson. he should be in the center of his friends alongside the bonfire, and yet something in him just doesn’t feel like it.

he decides to wander around, a water bottle full of whiskey in tow and liam’s discarded sweater tucked into his elbow, only to save himself from the bitching liam will do tomorrow if he realises he’s lost it. he’s out of cigarettes, out of habit, he pats himself down anyway.

a distance away, he can see a group of st. peter's kids mingled with some state school kids (who, as much as they boast, are no way near as fucking insane as some of the tuition kids louis knew) playing a rather large game of kings cup. louis finds himself walking along the barn through the back, avoiding any chance of walking in on kids having sex. louis never wants to be that prick.

around the corner, the air catches in louis’ throat, because he recognises harry - the boy with the stars in his eyes, backed against the wall of the barn and bracketed by a large guy who louis doesn’t recognize - which must means he doesn’t go to st. peter’s. figures he’d be such a sloppy, nasty looking lad, covered in saliva and reeking of watery beer. harry doesn’t seem to know what is going on. this sparks a quick, sharp, heat in louis’ gut.

“oi! haz, looking for you,” louis makes himself known, holding out the sweater to a very confused looking harry and a very disgruntled fuckhead. “here’s your sweater, you must’ve left it behind.”

naturally this peahead gets up in louis’ face for a second, but seems to think better of it, glancing back at the party behind him, swarming with st. peter's boys.

“mate, mate, i can get him back to the school,” dickhead offers, unable to take his gaze off harry. louis’ eyes flash dangerously.

“no, lad, he’d got to go home to mummy. you’ve caught yourself a thirteen year old boy, lucky you.”

“thirteen? fuck, you serious? he's all yours, lad. have at it.”

“nice seeing you,” louis mockingly salutes him as dickhead passes him. “and hey, lad, if you pick up any more youngsters, make sure they aren't mashed enough to see your ugly mug for what it is,” he calls out, which makes the guy turn around and looks like he’s about to argue.

understandably, he thinks better of it and heads off towards the loud cheers and the glowing light of the bonfire.

as louis gets closer to harry, he smells the lovely scent of someone who is completely off their head. this isn't how his night was supposed to go. louis isn’t exactly pleased to spending his friday night with this kid again, but seeing as he’s entirely sure that pervert will come back and finish harry if he has the chance to, he gathers as much of harry as he can in his arms. he half-drags, half carries harry in the direction of his jag, parked off in a neighboring field. god, he’s such a good samaritan.

the kid becomes heavy and annoying. fast. he’s just fucking dead weight. louis wants to just give up and leave him for dead, except that there’s something addicting about him, lovely and incoherent as he is. harry, other than his constant apologies, tries several times to stop louis so they can admire the stars, but louis is having none of that.

“how come,” louis mutters mutinously, “i never see you around campus, but anytime i try to have a bloody laugh, you decide to make an appearance, intent on ruining my evening,” louis pauses, pushing harry into the passenger seat. harry’s head hits the doorframe, but louis can’t find himself to care. “honestly, i’ve only got so much patience for this.”

harry nods and then giggles, pressing his fingers to the seat like it’s the softest fucking thing he’s ever felt. louis sighs, spins out onto a back road and tries to get this kid out of his car before he pukes all over the leather.

 

-

 

they get him into louis’ dorm room. louis locks the door behind him because he really doesn’t need the head boy or liam barging in here. louis texts liam, hoping he’s still sober enough to read it :

rooms off limits, x

he figures this is enough of an explanation, and if it isn’t, well, fuck liam. liam usually saunters off after these parties, usually because zayn has produced coke and even a boy as good as liam can’t resist it. louis sets the trash pail next to the bed and gestures for harry to crawl into liam’s bed. instead, the twat falls backwards onto louis’, and spreads out like a snow angel.

“as lovely as you think you are, you’re not lovely enough to be sleeping here,” louis tries to drag harry off his bed, with little success. harry is dead weight and curls and little else.

sighing, he pushes harry against the wall as much as he can and slips out of his smoky party clothes. he pulls harry’s shoes and scarf off, drags liam’s comforters and throws them over the boy, before crawling under his sheets and letting his head fall against the pillow case.

“louis,” harry whispers.

louis’ eyes open again, before frowning. “i told you i don’t like it when you call me that.”

harry giggles softly. “i don’t care right now.”

“clearly,” louis rolls his eyes, “you’re lush. what the fuck were you drinking?”

harry shrugs, smiling like he’s giddy with having louis’ undivided attention, his eyes glassy and impossibly round. “i have no idea. one moment i was just drinking a beer, and then there was jello -”

louis groans. “you absolute idiot. never do jello, they’re ninety percent vodka.”

“oh,” harry says, but it seems to take him a long time to work this out. “you know, you’re really popular here. i mean, now that i have a face to the name, everyone seems to know who you are.”

 

“don’t believe anything you hear,” louis says monotonously, like a recording. he’s said it so many times it stops becoming something he even believes. people will always say what they want to say about him. he figures he may as well give them something to talk about. “because nearly all of it is absolutely true.”

harry giggles, one of his curls tickling louis arm. “you think you’re so smooth.”

“don’t think i ever said that,” louis frowns, “but i’m confident enough to know i’m at least more smooth than you. you’re a wreck, you know.”

“back in france, i only drink wine,” harry smiles cheekily, shuffling closer to louis in his massive pile of blankets. “i have catching up to do with you lot.”

“really now,” louis states disinterestedly. christ, he’s fucking french.

“yeah," harry drawls out, looking giddy and sheepish at the same time, "can i tell you a secret?”

“i hate secrets and i don’t keep them very well,” louis finds that he’s laughing despite himself, “but go on, tell me, styles.”

“i’d never slept with anyone like that before you,” harry laughs quietly under his breath, “i’d only ever kissed one person before you. i don’t know, is that weird?”

“for fucks sake,” louis groans, rubbing a hand over his mouth. virgins will be the death of him. “i figure every has lost it by seventeen.”

“but i’m not seventeen, i’m fifteen,” harry shakes his head like he’s confused, and louis feels his stomach lurch. “my birthday isn’t until february. oh, did you not know?”

for some reason, this is extremely hilarious to harry, who erupts in giggles. louis waits patiently for them to subside, trying to ignore the twisting in his gut.

“you’re turning out to be more trouble than you’re worth, you know,” louis mutters, rolling to his side, but harry has already slipped into sleep, his face impossibly young and pretty, his long eyelashes resting against his cheeks. louis finds that he can’t look away, and he doesn’t want to.

only right as the sun rises, casting a blushing pink glow on the sky outside his dorm room, does louis close his eyes and fall asleep.

 

-

 

in the morning, his breath smells horribly and he has four text messages from liam, ranging from ok man luv u xxxxxxx to jfc, i'm in a right state, let me in soon. louis groans, rolls over, only to be met with a cold side of the bed. the sun is well in the sky, and the clock reads ten. harry is nowhere to be seen, and louis vaguely wonders if it was all a dream.

yet the empty trash bin next to his bed tells him otherwise. somehow, harry waking up before louis and leaving without a sound bothers him, so different than the first time they met. he grits his teeth, rubs the sleepy’s out of his eyes, and unlocks the door.

boys are milling around the corridors as louis brushes his teeth and slaps water on his face. he could really go for a wank and a shower. his stomach groans and directs him otherwise. he dresses in last week's barely passable chinos and an old st. peter’s jumper before heading down to breakfast and grabbing something that won’t interfere with the cigarette he’s looking forward to after.

“what happened to you last night? find a fit st. mary’s bird?” liam catches up to him near the mozart fountain on the green facing the dining hall. it's brittle outside, the tell-tale signs of winter upon them. still, the sun is too bright for louis’ liking.

he flicks the butt into the grass. “liam, my dear, i'm sure you're dying to know,” louis sighs, exhaling the last of his smoke. “you look well rested.”

liam in fact, does not. instead, he appears equal measures of tired and giddy, that erratic glint of his eyes hinting that he didn't sleep at all last night. his usual calm-and-composed self looking slightly could even be described as sexed up. louis rather liked this version of his best friend. perhaps because he rarely sees it.

“aw, fuck it, lou,” liam is the only person who called him lou. the nickname dates their friendship greatly - actually, louis is sure that liam got it from his mum, seeing as they grew up together as whiny tots wearing matching harrod's play suits well before they ever started attending st. peter’s.

zayn walks over to where they’re sitting at the fountain, louis tapping ash into the water. he walks like his legs are fitted with swagger, his face pinched in a smoulder, the wind not so much as ruffling his quiff. louis thinks he looks ridiculous, but is rather grumpy that zayn is holding up a muffin for liam, and doesn't’ have one for louis. some friend. even so, louis ducks his head and smiles so they can't see him. he's still supposed to be grumpy.

“catch you fucks later,” louis calls behind him as he leaves, slinging his jumper round his shoulders, which liam revealed to actually be his. louis had shrugged without much interest.

zayn raises to wave as liam has the decency to look exasperated, peeling the wrapper off his overpriced muffin.

 

-

 

his mother phones him that evening before break that richard, her and the girls are going to aspen in america for their winter holiday. her voice has this foreign sugar coating sound to it when she’s been drinking on too much and then tries to hide it.

"you're welcome to come home, of course, but darling, no one will be here," she says, and louis pictures her hair in rollers sitting in their conservatory, the sun hitting all the wrinkles botox has been able to freeze on her face. he can hear the sound of her wine glass clinking.

when the phone call ends he realizes it's the first time since august he's spoken to her, and louis just wants to break fucking every piece of furniture in their tiny dormitory. because this always fucking happens, and as much as he loves his mum, he fucking hates her. her distance makes him vulnerable, like a small child, and that is not what louis is anymore. her power over him makes his hands clench white as he chucks his phone uselessly against his bed.

he texts her then: all i want for christmas is cigarettes and a new watch and doesn't bother waiting for a reply. he busies himself rolling a spectacular spliff for a party of one, and watches frozen rain fall from outside. he’s got about a few days worth of homework and figures, high as the heavens, that he may as well start now.

he's made decent headway into an essay on contemporary jazz when liam comes in followed closely by niall and zayn. they're all wearing ski jackets and carrying backpacks. apparently, they all made last minute plans to go skiing in the french alps because zayn’s family rented the villa out an extra weekend and aren’t going to use it. they also, apparently, forget to inform louis about it.

“and?” he asks as they watch him expectantly, holding a faded joint between his fingers and he types the word influence in his word document like he doesn’t give a shit where they’re going.

“well,” liam looks a bit antsy, eyeing the roach as it lays, still smoking, on top of louis' notes. “don't you want to come with us? we'll get piss drunk and attempt to ski and then next week we'll all go back to niall’s, start making rounds at dinner parties and charity balls. like old times sake, yeah?”

"we'll get fresh pick of this years débutantes at the christmas fundraiser liam's mum is putting on," niall smirks, wagging his eyebrows. "i know you love your ball gown girls."

"that i do," he agrees, smiling. louis feels himself soften at liam's big affectionate fuck-all puppy eyes and curses himself a ponce. “nah, lads. i'm calling it a weekend in. sure you lot can get into enough trouble without me.”

“you’re a right bore, tomlinson,” zayn curses affectionately, before throwing him a pack of fags.

“ta,” louis grins cheekily, though his chest is starting it ache. he's going to blame it on the drafty cold of their ill-tempered dorm room. living in the towers always seemed like a good idea. it was the hall fit for a king, and louis always fancied his namesake.

“figured you'd need 'em more than me," zayn says, running a hand over his quiff. a blood vessel in his left eye is absolutely shot, making him look slightly deranged, exaggerated even more so by his ethereal beauty. louis has always appreciated fine art when he sees it.

"we're all skipping out early,” niall says, picking up his ski poles, “for holiday. st. peter's christmas roast dinner doesn't hold a flame to swiss babes and fresh powder on the ground.”

“honourable choice, gentlemen,” louis salutes, “leave the alcohol, li. i’ll be the sad old lonely drunk this weekend without you lads."

"doubtful. you fancy yourself a complete slag, lou," zayn goads, and louis shrugs appreciatively.

liam eyes him for a moment, before turning to louis, "happy holiday - ”

“don’t get shitty on me now," louis says gruffly, flapping his hand.

liam grins cheerfully as zayn waves over his shoulder, following niall out. “course not, lou. but i do love you -”

louis throws a dirt caked shoe at him before he can finish his sentence. it misses, hitting the door as it closes suddenly behind them.

he sighs quietly. this general air of excitement around him has been putting a damper on his mood. the school has been a titter all week, with most students anxious to leave for home with plans of christmas dinner or some other lame shit that he can’t be bothered with. it suddenly makes louis feel very alone with his drugs and alcohol and credit cards. they surround him like useless beacons.

the holidays, louis thinks bitterly, always remind him that he lacks real family. when he was little he used to be toted around to all the galas and fundraisers his parents participated in, rubbing elbows with the other rich and famous that ran the london circles, unaware of what elite little clique he was born into. liam still goes to them, usually as his mother's date, and zayn, only because he's forced to. even though all those events were considered family outings by his mother, they all felt like they were just for show.

the silence of the dorm echos back at him, and now with the boys gone, and no one to roll around with, the beginning of winter hols is starting to look bleak.

this type of ache never bothered him before, but now it sort of sits deep beneath the haze of his weaning high, like a stomach ache from too many sweets.

 

-

 

its first day of christmas break, and louis is alone in his dorm. he figures he can go around to any of the neighbouring villages, or practice sax, or fuck with liam and cut every other odd stanza out of his sheet music, but decides against it all. instead he goes down to the common rooms, rarely used by any of the older boys, and watches the late night infomercials on the telly. he smokes a cigarette inside because he can, and he ponders buying a vitamix blender. it could come in use for mixing drinks, at the very least.

 

-

 

despite the few random pockets of year twelves and thirteens louis recognizes next to no one at breakfast the next morning. louis regrets going down to the dinner hall because he feels suddenly very uncomfortable, even if he'd never admit that outloud. he has a discarded copy of the sun, scanning for his last name, and eats nutella on toast, and he feels eyes on him as he sits on his own and eats quietly.

since he started attending st. peters, with his mother being one of the richest rock star's wife-cum-divorcee-cum-widows to ever grace this side of south london; and he, a loud mouth with fingers moulded for a sax and enough charisma to start a goddamn cult, louis immediately became one of those boys. he didn't ask for it. it's just always who he's been.

and with that notoriety, he’s always been alone, a stag in a field of does, but now, it seems very wrong that he should stand out. he hides out in his dorm with one of niall's old bongs he bought in camden when they were kids and pretends he’s okay with this loneliness.

 

-

 

munchies have him sneaking around later that night. louis usually doesn't take care to be too quiet, but as he's nearly the only in the year thirteen hall, he'd like to avoid the security guard who lurks around.

he's gunning for a massive slice of battenberg cake he knows niall keeps in his nightstand when he runs into someone else in the hall. at first, he quietly panics, thinking it was security at first, until  he realizes quickly, and much to his annoyance, that the mystery person is harry. the very same harry who carries his smile like a loaded gun and eyes wide enough to make you believe he's completely innocent. louis’ voice gets caught in his throat and he very slightly, very quietly, hates himself for it.

“louis. hi.”

louis gapes at him, “shut the fuck up, i don’t want to get lectured - ”

“why would you get lectured?” harry asks, but he lowers his voice considerably, looking around the empty corridor.

“fucks sake, shush!” louis snaps, and thinks he hears someone walking near by.

as aggravated as louis sounds, he can’t help but grab the inside of harry’s wrist, his fingers pressing against the soft skin there, dragging him down the hall and to the right, away from the common room and whoever is at the end of that hall. it’s the weed in his system that makes him crave harry’s company. it’s the drugs and drugs only.

“where are we off to?” harry whispers, who seems content to just be led around the school at half two in the morning.

“i want food, and i know who has some.”

the year twelve hall is no great distance away from louis’ own room, and niall's door is at the end of the hall with the best view of the st. peter's cathedral across the lake. louis jiggles the door knob until he’s in.

though he doesn’t smoke as much as louis, or even close to reaching zayn's status, niall still eats like he's got a bad case of the munchies. niall says it's all the rowing, and the football, and the running, and whatever else he's involved in. louis finds packets of marzipan and jammy dodgers in the bedside drawer, and he tucks them in a self- made pouch in his shirt before leading harry out of niall’s door, closing it behind him as quietly as he can.

“whose room was that?” harry asks, and honestly, this kid doesn’t know what shut the fuck up means. it also makes louis wonder if he lives under a fucking rock. niall is literally the captain of every small and damned team they have at this academy, not to mention he's first string horn and one of louis' best mates. everyone knows the horans, as they’re one of the oldest families and heads the largest brewery in ireland.

“niall, but he’ll never miss any of it.”

“niall, like the actor?”

"what actor -”

“the one on that show, downton abbey," harry whispers back hurriedly, and louis stops in the middle of the hall with a hand on his chest.

"i'm going to pretend you didn't just say that," he says firmly. harry looks put off, but at this point, louis couldn't care less. downton abbey. honestly. "niall's one of my mates."

harry in turn rolls his eyes like louis is an idiot, "well, i know that. you and your golden boys rioting around the school like you own it. hard not to notice."

“the golden - what? are you talking shit, haz, or am i imagining?” louis shakes his head exasperated as harry follows him into his room, his door creaking as they slip inside his dorm.

"i think it's more accurate to - jesus, this room really needs aerosol, it practically reeks of your bad habits,” harry says, scrunching his nose at the smell. louis looks around at the slight mess of his bed, but doesn’t smell anything out of the ordinary.

louis pulls out a cigarette, and as he flicks the match, the light illuminates harry’s curious face for a moment before it fizzles and dies. “why does everyone think they’re bad habits?” louis grumbles, sitting cross legged with his stolen sweets in his lap.

“oh, i don’t know, because they kill you?” harry wonders facetiously.

“everyone is already dying,” louis says quietly, and turns around to look at harry. “sorry, why the hell are you even here?” louis squints in the darkness as he flicks his cig. harry shuffles, his bones too big for his body still. he's such a kid, and it makes louis uneasy.

“because you hadn’t let go of my wrist until a second ago,” harry snarks, but it’s soft, and louis is thankful for the dark room because he’s pretty sure that he’s flushed.

 

he scoffs like he obviously meant something entirely different, “no, i mean, for holiday.”

at this, harry smiles wryly, though it could easily look like a grimace from another angle. he shrugs, trying to act indifferent, but louis can practically feel the nerve he touched. “i’m going to spend christmas eve in paris, but otherwise, i have a recital to practice for that i can’t do in nice.”

“paris is for bad poets and shit heads,” louis says shortly, laughing at harry’s incredulous expression, “now, i would like to light this spliff, and eat these sweets. so you can see yourself out.”

harry scoffs indignantly. “you’re an arse, and seem to be forgetting that you were the one who dragged me three halls away from my own room. it’s dark and cold outside and i don’t want to walk back now. all i needed was the loo.”

“and did you go to the loo?” louis blows smoke tendrils into harry’s face and raises an eyebrow.

“yes - "

“cheers, then. mission accomplished. now get out.”

“i want to smoke first," harry smiles sweetly, his front teeth biting the bottom of his lip, “then i’ll leave, promise.”

“cheeky," louis remarks but nonetheless he passes the rolled joint to harry, who lights it and inhales. a few shared drags between them later, harry’s pupils are blown black and tempting. they beg louis, egg him on, and he could fall into how deep and dark they are. the sky a morose gray outside the curtains, not quite dark because of all the snow. and it's so quiet, all louis can hear is harry’s slightly laboured breathing. so he goes for it.

harry’s kiss is almost the same, though this time he tastes of smoke and strawberry jelly, and his fingers are cold when they curl around louis’ neck. louis pushes harry back on to the bed, his whole body tingling and light, feeling impossibly good as he presses himself against harry.

“you’re so lovely looking, did you know?” harry murmurs, impossibly soft but also looking dazed as reaches to brush his fingertips across louis' cheekbone, fascinated with louis’ face when his touch moves to trace his brow.

louis tries to ignore the tenderness of the moment, tries to shut off his upstairs brain and focus on the thrumming, keening need that is coursing through his body. stop this, louis steers himself. he's only a distraction. he’s only a temptation, an itch louis wants to fucking scratch. harry mumbles something in french then, but he’s so quiet that even if louis did pay attention to his french lecturer he wouldn’t hear it.

“hush, hazza,” louis whispers, before pressing sloppy kisses to harry’s neck. he doesn't want to talk, and he doesn't want to think. he peels off harry’s night shirt and throws it across the room. louis reaches in to his sweatpants, trailing his fingers down harry’s faint happy trail and lightly touching the patch of hair near the base of his cock. his hands shakes with the urge to touch, and it exhilarates louis as much as it scares him.

but harry catches louis’ wrist, stops him from touching him any further. harry sits up, taking a deep breath and tucking his knees on either side of louis, one of his knees curling around louis’ back, bracketing him. harry kisses him, slowly, his lips wet and tasting like sweets, and louis feels the power shift then, for a moment, and he’s rendered speechless, unable to think.

“what do you think you’re doing?”louis questions into the dark as harry works on slipping off his pyjama pants, and he’s about to argue more when harry pushes him against the bed, kneeling down between his legs. he feels something wet and warm touch the tip of his dick, and oh. looking down swiftly, even in the dark, he can see the corner of harry’s pink tongue darting out again, taking a languid lick against the head of louis’ cock. louis stifles a small groan.

“wanted to try,” harry murmurs, his breath hot and heavy against the base of louis’ shaft, and louis tries to relax his shoulders as harry strokes him, gently, and presses kisses to his thighs and his lower stomach. louis felt listless, floating, and his whole body alight with urging as harry takes his teasing time.

“get on with it,” louis grunts through clenched teeth.

“patience is a virtue,” harry quips from somewhere at the bottom of the bed. louis wants to retaliate but his words are lost in a gasp when harry takes louis completely in his mouth, and it’s so hot and wet and tight and well - obviously his first time. but it's still not like any of the other girls who have ever sucked his cock, and maybe - maybe it’s because harry is young and bright and glowing. its still so good, and louis already knows this is new wank material in the making. not that he'd ever admit it.

harry breathes through his nose and hums, almost hesitantly, like he's been studious while watching pornos. louis' fingers twitch to clutch the sheets, but instead he winds his fingers through the curls around the crown of harry’s head. his balls clench as his hips start to sutter erratically and he tries to hold still. harry looks up at him then, and louis nearly comes without a shred of warning; his eyes are bright green and watery and egg him on.

too much, louis thinks brokenly, this boy is too fucking much.

he bites his lip as harry traces his tongue along the vein on the underside of louis' cock to hold in the pitiful moan his body wants to emit. harry must sense this, because he bobs his head, dirty and down to business, spit on his chin and cheeks, and louis comes, hard, lights appearing behind his eyelids.

harry licks his lips like he's needy for it and louis resists the urge to wrap his hands back into his curls, tugging on them until harry wipes that smug look on his face. he feels like a child backed into the corner, ready to prove himself. he feels like he's on the cusp of a cliff, waiting for the next wind to tip him over. harry props himself up on his elbow next to louis and grins.

“so. how was that?” harry questions, and louis is slightly infuriated at the laugh in his voice.

“who bloody taught you to do that?” louis tries to sound as disgruntled as possible. harry’s smile borders on cheshire, the cheeky fuck.

“no one. i’ve been wanting to do that to you,” harry says shyly, shrugging, “i’ve thought about it.”

“really. how come you’re so inexperienced, then? you beg like a slut for it enough to not be getting any,” louis snarks, feeling satisfied when harry’s smile quivers in it's place. he throws the pastry wrappers onto the floor, indifferent.

“dunno. guess no one has been around to teach me, really,” harry sighs, his voice low and hoarse from giving head. and then he smirks, actually fucking smirks, and louis cannot resist the urge to roll his eyes.

 

-

 

the rest of the night, louis plays teacher, bending harry over the bed, against the wall, on his knees, in a mess of blankets. he opens harry up, teaches him about hands and mouths and bones and bodies, and. and harry is his very, very eager student.

 

-

 

 

the duration of his week is a blur. he smells harry everywhere; harry is in his sheets and pillowcases, harry is in the half-smoked cigarettes on the windowsill, harry is in the loose leaflets of christmas paper and sweet wrappers, harry is in the pile of clothes by his bed. jesus, he smells of harry, too, where he was kissed on his collarbone, between his joints, his mouth tasting like harry's teeth. louis’ not sure he’s gotten completely dressed the entire six days before this morning, when his driver is supposed to come fetch him for christmas eve in kensington.

but louis does realize three things: that he hasn’t smiled genuinely in months, and he hasn’t eaten so many sweets in such a short amount of time, and he hasn’t ever looked at anyone the way he can feel himself looking at harry. these things are too scary for him to fully understand, so he puts them away in the back of his mind and leaves them well alone.

harry is young, too young for his age, maybe, with clear skin and clearer eyes. he wears his heart on his sleeve and pouts like he’s used to getting his way and is a very good listener when louis spreads him out on the duvet. he lets louis fuck him into the mattress, moans at the right times, whispers dirty things that louis taught him in his ear in the mornings. his curly hair is matted and springy as he wakes up, and he mockingly glares at louis when he makes an even bigger mess of his bedhead.

the morning before christmas eve, louis is naked and sore, sprawled on his duvet. the light shines and several floors below, some arsehole is playing dean martin's christmas album. harry has somehow swaddled himself in all of louis' blankets, his curls stuck to his sweaty face. louis rubs his eyes and wipes his mouth, before sliding in next him. the warmth against his cold skin is gratifying, and louis presses closer until harry whines.

he opens his eyes, and a small smile smears his sleepy face. “you aren't trying to have a cuddle, are you?”

louis rolls his eyes. “not at all. you’ve got all the comforters, you stingy arse.”

harry ignores him in favor of pressing closer, and louis runs his palm flat over harry's bare hip. his fingers feel like feather dusters as they trace up louis' side.

“you go home today, don’t you?” he whispers forlornly. louis ignores the tone of harry’s voice. he doesn’t like it. he doesn’t want it.

louis nods, before closing his eyes in an attempt to sleep a bit more before he has to pack and up out to the station.

“well, will you text me?” harry prods. “i might get lonely.”

“jesus, hazza, don’t be such a prat.”

“but i might -”

“but you might not. let me sleep," louis shuts him up about calling or texting or writing because he’s not one of those lads and he doesn’t do those types of things that get everyone wonderfully fucked over. he’d rather stick a revolver in his mouth and let it off. harry rolls over to face the wall, quiet.

louis opens his eyes and spots a freckle on the back of harry's neck. he has the urge to reach out and touch it but - refrains, for some reason. his stomach hurts, like he's had a bad bout of the flu. guilt, liam's voice floats through his consciousness. that's guilt, right there, mate.

louis positively does not feel guilt, though. absolutely not.

 

-

 

louis' car is waiting to take him back home. after some harassment, he lets harry tag along, that stupid boy, and harry smiles bashfully from the steps before louis shoves his shit in the boot, and tells the driver to give him five. harry backs up onto the landing of st. peters' and blushes, offering louis a small wave. louis rolls his eyes, and resolutely does not blush or wave in return.

“don’t get too wrecked,” louis says. _don’t miss me._

“i think i should be saying that to you, actually,” harry grins weakly, looking down the the front entrance corridor. _you know i will._

“please,” louis scoffs, before taking a step back further towards the car door. “see you after holiday, princess.” _stop pretending there's an us. there is no us._

harry is still waving as louis’ driver drives down the exit. _but there could be an us._

 

-

  
  


christmas at the tomlinson’s is as per usual: their home in kensington is decorated by someone hired to come and match the tinsel and red ribbon because his mother is hopeless at it and image is everything. she is beautiful and smells too much like red wine. his stepfather hovers, pretending jay isn't drunk by noon, leaving often to make business calls.

his sisters are intelligent, beautiful and completely charming. louis wonders how he got such pretty little girls in his life. he hopes, in the back of his mind, that they never meet boys like him. it's different, seeing them so completely in their own element in kensington, in london, with their mother and father. they aren't in boarding school, aren't shipped off to surrey, and it makes a difference. louis is bitter. he won't deny it.

this house is cold and it doesn't feel really like home - his bedroom could pass for a guest room, and everything feels stale. all his father's things - pictures, trophies, awards, art - are put away, presumably in storage. louis doesn't do well with feeling like he doesn't belong; so getting drunk that evening seems like the best option. christmas morning he opens presents with the girls still hungover and they go out for a sunday roast dinner at in mayfair and no one talks to anyone.

louis loses it later that evening, when the girls are put to bed and his mother has been hammering a bottle of 1992 pinot since nearly three that day - louis as well - and it just takes one comment. it always starts with just one comment about louis' father.

jay has always harboured resentment about louis' father, and she has no right, louis screams at her, take his wine glass and smashing it again the reception room wall - she has no bloody right dragging his name through the mud.

louis' father is the one thing in his life that is his own. she may go ahead and refuse to say his name, or take his things off the walls, and sweep away his existence, like his mother does to all other things that put her in an unpleasant light, but she does not get to take away what little louis has left of him.

she looks nothing like the jay tomlinson he sees so often present: put together and posh and polished; not with her cheeks blotchy red and her makeup smeared on her face and the sloppy way she stands; not when his mother starts to cry and tells louis exactly where she thinks he should be. unruly, ungrateful, spitfire little shite that you are, louis tomlinson, just like your father.

and louis says spitefully, "i would be fucking happy to be with him than here."

he calls a cab as his mother screams at him from the kitchen and throws his jacket on before slamming the front door and slipping into the lobby. as far as christmases go at the tomlinson's, it isn't the worst one they've had.

 

-

 

he isn’t sure why he does this, but louis calls harry, and he fucking hates himself. he'd like to pretend he forgot about keeping harry's number in his phone, but he didn't, and he should have deleted this days ago. but he didn't, and that's something, isn't it.

“hello?” his voice is lovely and light and beautiful. louis really, really, fucking hates himself.

“can you please, please come here?” louis whispers quietly. he's not used to asking. he doesn't know which tone of voice to use. he’s not even sure harry is back in england at this point, or if he stayed in paris longer than he said he would, fuck -

“where are you, louis?” harry worries, his voice small and far away.

louis explains which night bus to take from petersham to the cemetery in st. margaret's. its the same borough his father was born. it makes sense then, that this is where he’s buried.

and louis think’s he’ll say no, but he says, “i’ll be there as soon as i can. i promise.”

people always break their promises. louis' spent half his life learning this.

 

-

 

“how drunk are you?” harry's voice trickles in from somewhere above him. the christmas lights in the trees are no more than blurs around his slender figure as he kneels down next to louis. the grass is frozen and crunchy underneath them.

louis shrugs and tries not to say anything. he’s scared he’ll start to talk, or worse, cry. “probably a lot. properly smashed, maybe. i don’t know.”

harry wraps a blanket around him without warning and lies next to louis and all louis can see is the puffs of breath that exhale in the cold, december air. “whose grave are we kipping on?"

louis swallows, his throat itchy, his voice thick. “my father's.”

“i'm sorry," the look on harry's face when he says this reminds louis of when he was younger and so full of integrity and youth and had an earnest heart, and it makes him sick to his stomach to look at now.

they lie together in silence for a while. an urban fox darts in between graves a metre to their left. louis opens his mouth but nothing comes out; a dam must break, however, because he can't stop talking once he starts. and he's not careful about what he says, not speaking in lyrics and rhymes. like his heart is speaking directly to harry, like he needs someone to really, really listen to him.

“when my parents met my dad was playing pubs in west london and my mum was a waitress. a year later he was pat bloody tomlinson. one sunday, before i was accepted into st. peter's, he took me to waterloo and we rode the eye like bloody tourists. everyone stopped to get pictures with him like usual but he didn't mind this time, he didn't mind. it was our day. and when we reached the top he spread the city out with his hand and told me that it was all mine for the conquering, that i do anything and everything i wanted,” louis says in one breath, "not because i had a rockstar dad, or a famous last name, but because he knew i could. he believed in me."

louis takes a deep breath, swallowing hard, "even now, it's been two years, even now people come up to me, like, 'oh remember the time your dad did this, or when he released that album, or this one song, i still listen to it every day' and people are always telling me how my dad was or how he wasn't, and he said a lot of important shit to me before he died, sad shit and all that, but this is the memory i always come back to," louis shrugs, and wipes his face. "bit stupid, really. actually completely stupid."

“it isn’t stupid. it’s okay to be upset.”

“i don’t get upset, haz. i just get drunk.”

louis doesn’t like the sad smile on harry's face because it implies that harry understands, that he relates, and louis thinks bitterly that no one could relate to how it feels to have a famous dead rockstar dad, to have all these expectations about you, to have your last name carry so much behind it. louis shivers in the cold, and harry scoots closer until their shoulders overlap. instead of moving away, he finds harry's hand tucked in his coat pocket and holds his clammy fingers. neither of them say anything until the sun rises up over the trees.

-

 

louis is welcomed by liam's indignant squawks at the state of their room on their first day of spring term.

 

“honestly, what on god's earth have you been doing?” liam demands, rounding on louis, who looks around at the mess with disinterest.

 

louis shrugs, knowing that it enrages liam even more. liam shakes his head, running a hand through his newly shorn hair. there’s a love bite peeking out of his collar, but louis is suddenly too tired to comment on it. instead, he crawls inside his blankets, despite it being nearly three on a sunday, and falls asleep.

 

-

 

when he wakes up the next morning, having slept fitfully through the night, the room is leagues tidier. liam is folding his cuffs on his uniform, stacking his textbooks on his small desk. louis rubs the sleep out of his eyes and reaches blinding for his uniform. it's sitting neatly in his dresser drawers instead at the end of his bed.

“knew you were a born housemaid when i met you,” louis mutters tiredly, eyes still mostly closed.

“you met me when we were three,” liam remarks, still terse. in the mirror, louis doesn’t like the concerned look liam is shooting him. he dresses, even attempting to bother with his tie, goes down to the baths to brush his teeth and wash his face. he isn’t hungry, so he slings his sax case round his shoulder and seeks some practice time.

that shitty, fuck everyone, fuck everything, feeling returns, but it’s tired and ragged around the edges. louis doesn’t even bother lighting a cigarette; his lungs hurt enough from the pressure of playing. he doesn’t quit all morning despite this.

when school officially resumes, he goes to his classes, sits in the dining halls, tries to cut back on cigarettes. liam is more than worried at his decreased appetite, but louis excuses it on the lack of weed. louis can tell this concerns liam, too, his head peeking from up from his studies to shoot him worried side-glances. louis usually tells liam to fuck off, but there is no heat behind it. he's lost his touch.

he ignores the ache behind his heart. he ignores it until it makes his sick.

 

-

 

humiliation colours harry’s cheeks when louis pretends not to see his wave. the boys are gathered around their usual post at the mozart statue; their spot since niall and zayn started st. peter's and the four of them were reunited once more. louis watches him out of the corner of his eye, expecting harry to get the hint and leave. instead, he a starts to walk towards them. louis thinks zayn nearly startles out of his sleepy existence. no one ever really approaches them when they're all together like this.

“um, hello,” liam says like he's confused, cocking his head when harry comes to stand in front of them. zayn looks up at him, squinting, confused. niall continues eating, but then nothing truly fazes him. “you're gemma styles' younger brother, right -"

“your sister is proper fit, she is,” niall remarks, and harry colours, looks like he wants to say something about niall's sister, like louis certainly would have. instead, he turns to louis directly, eyes big and hopeful, his toes turned in.

“hi,” his voice is unsure and shy. jesus christ.

"hi," louis says shortly, confusion obvious in his voice. “do you...need something?" his tongue cuts like glass inside the mouth. zayn and niall snicker pointedly, zayn playing with his iphone like he can't be bothered. louis feels like he might puke but he can’t stop himself. “is there something i can do for you?”

harry opens his mouth, his brow creased and outraged, face a violent shade of red. he shakes his head no, adjusts his bag and sets off along the grass hurriedly, disappearing between packs of students. louis flicks his cigarette to the ground.

“i didn’t know you knew that kid,” zayn remarks, snickering. it makes louis’ blood boil.

“i don’t. he knows me, like everyone else bloody does at this school,” louis bites out and the boys drop it. he catches liam’s eye for a second, and looks away quickly, because liam is his best friend, practically his brother, and he knows, of course he knows. he looks at louis a moment later, confusion and disappoint cloudy in his expression.

 

-

 

harry corners louis walking back from his sax lesson one spring afternoon, when the halls are empty and everyone is at dinner. it's a wet, unpleasant april day. it's been raining for what seems like months.

“why have you been ignoring me?” harry trails after him, a sweater drowning his lithe frame, his hair wet and plastered to his forehead from the rain. louis keeps walking, flicking his fag to the ground.

“fucking listen to me, louis!” harry rushes ahead of louis and cuts off the entry to his dorm, his stance defensive and angry. “what's the bloody matter with you? i know that you don’t - but i thought over winter holiday we -”

“you thought what over winter break?”

“i thought we -” harry stops, looking unsure. he steps back like he's confused as to who he's talking to.

“come on, spit out. you thought we...?” louis trails, voice light and bleeding indifference.

“ - were something.”

louis bites back a bitter laugh as this hot, ugly lump swells in his throat. he feels - he feels fucking alive and it's painful, the way harry looks at him, desperate and hopeful. he doesn't want this - he doesn’t need this absolute crock.

“we were never anything. you understand that? you can’t just go around thinking you and i were...jesus, princess. you, you were just there. it didn't mean anything.”

“i don’t believe you,” harry mutters stubbornly. a tear slips out from underneath his lid. he chews on his lip and turns to look at the courtyard. louis resists the pull to wrap his fingers in the boy’s hair, to pull apart and examine his brain. he turns to louis, "you're lying."

“really? and what makes you think i’m lying?”

“because if you didn’t mean any of it, it wouldn’t matter so much. you wouldn’t be so scared of it.”

“i’m not fucking scared of anything,” louis spits, hackles rising. lies. “can't you get it through your thick head that i don't want you? you’re a fucking kid. i make a habit of going through virgins. i get bored otherwise.”

“you’re lying,” harry repeats, his voice hoarse, cracking. louis wonders if anyone can hear them through the rain - not that it matters. it doesn't. louis is sick of feeling tethered to this kid. he wants to be free and light weight and not have this thrumming ache in his gut every time he thinks he sees so much as curly hair.

“m'not,” louis says quietly, before shoving his way past into his dorm. "just a nice fuck is all."

“fine, fuck you. fuck you!” harry calls after him.

it takes everything he has not to storm back and throttle the boy. this stupid boy, with his stupid fucking stars in the his eyes, thinking he could actually be with someone like louis tomlinson. poor little boy, louis thinks bitterly, _getting his heart broken. his innocence was nice while it lasted._

liam isn't there when he keycards into his dorm. he shucks his wet uniform, sax on the floor next to his bag. his wet fringe tickles his forehead.

 _you’re a coward_ , the wind beats against the window.

 _you’re a liar_ , the rain is loud in his ears.

 _it is something_ , louis falls into bed and hopes he doesn’t wake back up.

 

-

 

“you going to tell me what's got you on, lou?"

this is what louis wakes up to. he feels disoriented and irrationality angry and sore, like one often does after an ill timed nap. he figures vaguely he must have missed his classes but finds he doesn’t care, that he was due for a skip day anyway. liam is in his school jumper, sitting on the side of his bed, his hands folded quietly in his lap. he bites his lip, and louis thinks, fuck. he’s still so tired.

“are you in love with zayn?” he asks instead of answering, voice quiet and impossibly small. liam sputters.

“what?” he at least has the decency to look surprised that louis didn't know.

“come off it, you fucking love him. want his babies and all that. which is shit, because i don’t think he knows, and he's just tossing you around."

“he isn’t ‘tossing me around’- ” liam catches him, pink patches appearing on the apples of his cheeks. “it doesn’t matter. zayn's being practically groomed for his father’s business. he can't tarnish his reputation before he even starts."

louis surprises himself by finding liam’s hand and holding it. liam looks down like he doesn’t understand what’s just happened. “louis, what’s wrong? this isn’t like you.”

“what? can't an old chap like me have a few sour days?” louis laughs derisively. then he shrugs, wishes he had a cigarette. or a pint. so he can forget about the tight ache in his chest. “did you know you're one of the only people i've liked for years?”

“you have a funny way of showing it,” liam mutters, but louis _tsks_ and shakes his head.

“you know what i mean, twat. but...” louis clears his throat, tries to swallow. he’s thirsty. “do you think it's painful to fall in love?”

“love? you’re really starting to worry me here.”

“shut up, you prat. i’m trying to ask a serious question.”

“serious question? from louis tomlinson? i thought your life motto was to hang onto your sanity by the tips of your fingernails. what's all this about love?”

“that is my life motto, it hasn't changed. it's just that..."

“you’ve met someone?” liam tries not to smile, curious. “a girl who isn't hellbent on raising chaos like you like to, hopefully?"

louis clears his throat, shrugging. liam's referencing that one time with that one girl from st. mary's, who admittedly, probably wasn't the best choice in girls to date. but it had been one hell of a cocaine fuelled weekend, that's for sure. "not a girl, mate."

“oh," liam looks straight ahead, squeezing louis' hand, “but you always seemed intent on conquering the virginities of the entire female six form at christ church.”

louis shrugs. “so i like both. give me some fucking slack.”

“relax, louis. you know i'd never lay judgement on what you do, even though there have been a few times i've questioned your complete lack of responsibility and inherent recklessness."

“at least half those times you've been right by my side. so get off your saintly high horse, liam. last time i recall you were smoking, doping, and taking it up the bum just as well."

liam groans, shaking his head and smiling exasperatedly, “really, lou. honestly.”

“i’m just scared,” louis admits quietly a few moments later. "i don’t like this feeling, whatever it is."

liam presses his lips to louis' forehead even though he knows he'll get shit for it later, and that's true love, right there. “don't be scared. they’re worth keeping, especially if they handle your pain in the arse. i don’t know anyone who can really understand you, lou.”

“except you, you behemoth shit.”

liam laughs, and louis ducks his head to smile. “that’s a given, though.”

 

-

 

naturally, it’s only after louis told harry to essentially stay the fuck away from him that louis sees him around school.

harry is the teacher’s assistant for the art class louis never used to attend, and frequently during class he’ll put up pieces of harry’s artwork as examples. it stings to think of him, let alone be forced to see him, that same sickly feeling cropping up just when louis' forgotten about it. sometimes when he's feeling really masochistic, he look at harry and try to egg him into looking back, but harry rarely does. head down, cheeks flushed. louis is ashamed to realize that more often than not, he does the same.

all the boys at st. peter’s are musically gifted in their own right, but harry is a prodigy amongst them. this is made apparent to louis during an assembly celebrating the beginning of spring half term, and harry is asked to play.

piano is his weapon, and god do his fingers dance. louis' fingers clench his knees harshly, craving a cigarette as the song constricts his heart. god fucking dammit. god damn it all to hell.

 

-

 

sleeping soundly is no longer an option. louis can’t believe he gives so much as a fuck about this boy. why this boy - his messy hair and his messy mouth and his sloppy, naive blow-jobs, remarks all cheeky and curious, with his giant creepy looking eyes - why this boy is so important. why he doesn't fade into the background like all the rest of them.

louis wonders what he sees in harry. he wonders why he likes him; why anyone or anything should hurt this much. he’s cranky. and liam just smiles at him ever so slightly, ever so knowing, and it makes louis far more foul than he ever remembers being.

fuck this shit, louis thinks. fuck whatever this is.

he hooks up with a girl from st. mary’s a few weeks later. she’s pretty, with nice brown eyes and shapely hips and she tastes like peach vodka and tobacco. it's easy. this is something he recognizes. this is something he’s used to, a mindless fuck in the woods during a party.

he's rough with her, and she doesn't seem to mind, just lets him take, take, take, and coincidentally, gives him nothing in return.

_i thought we were something._

_you’re lying._

_i don’t believe you._

he thought fucking her until they both collapse would make him feel free again.

instead louis just feels weighed down with a heavy fucking heart and a brain he hates. his hands shake as liam drives them all home, quiet and drunk, and he just wants to crawl into his blankets and not exist. he’s so fucking tired of existing.

 

-

 

he’s smoking a cigarette during half-term. almost everyone has gone home and louis might've, too, but his mum never called after christmas. louis realizes he doesn’t really mind being back at st. peters, alone.

there's a part of him that is happy zayn and liam aren’t there. now that louis looks close enough at the two of them there are signs everywhere of their joined existence; studying at the library well into the evening, and double-booked cello practice, and sharing school jumpers - it makes louis feel ridiculously protective over his friends, ridiculous as they are.

it’s a cold, wet evening as he walks along the empty front lawns and courtyards, the mozart fountain abandoned and quiet. it starts to properly pour, and louis’ thin t-shirt soaks through before he's able to dash into one of the halls.

it's a smaller dorm hall, presumably for year ten and elevens. the walls are decadent and reek less of smoke, with pictures of old deans and other important twats lining the walls. louis doesn’t put out his cigarette.

he's going through the names on the doors when his eye catches a harry styles, and it feels like he's just swallowed sour whisky. louis stands in front of the door, frozen, for a moment that lasts longer than he’d like to admit. he knocks. it’s a single.

the door opens and harry pokes his head out, before trying to close the door as quickly as he opened it. louis puts his knee in the door jam and curses when harry pushes against it.

“christ sakes, you’ll break my fucking knee!” louis exclaims at him, but all the same keeps his leg there.

“then get your bloody knee out of the bloody door!” harry exclaims exasperatedly, but try as he might he’ll never shake the french lisp attached to his speech, like the inside of his mouth is coated in velvet.

“that’d be the opposite of what i’m trying to do, haz.”

“well if i stop, you'll come in, and that's what i'm trying to prevent, you self-satisfying arsehole.”

“five points to gryffindor for the clever insult," louis rolls his eyes, and then sighs. “hazza. please let me in.”

“can't imagine what you'd have to say to me seeing as i'm no longer a fucking virgin.”

louis presses his head against doorway, biting his lip. “i didn’t - i didn’t mean that.”

“oh piss off, louis. you did mean it,” he bites out, his voice harsh and bitter like something louis’ never heard before.

“shit, i cannot believe i’m - listen to me. _harry_.”

harry ceases pushing at the door and opens it, and louis nearly loses his balance. harry crosses his arms, blocking most of the doorway and louis’ view of the room. the younger boy narrows his eyes. “why’d you call me that?”

“call you what?”

“harry.”

“what - well that’s your name, isn’t it?” louis asks, baffled.

“yes, you twat - but you’ve never called me by my name. you’ve always called me something else,” harry looks like the fight has been drawn out of him as he lowers his gaze. his shoulders cave in a bit. he looks a little sadder, a little more lost. perhaps louis is the only one who notices.

 

"it's like i can feel that you don't want to look at me, but you do anyway. and i understand that i didn't mean a lot to you - but - "

“i’m a really big fucking prat," louis cuts in, “listen. i can’t stop thinking about you. something about those curls, maybe. just, open the door.”

there’s a pause, before harry looks up from his feet. louis is slightly horrified that his eyes are suspiciously red. he smiles, however, and rolls his eyes, "you’re horrible.”

“i know,” louis admits. harry laughs wetly, wraps his arms around himself tighter, like he’s holding himself together.

“look,” louis says. “i don't want you to leave me alone. the opposite, i think.”

harry pushes the door open, his long slender body leaning heavily on the frame, blinking for a moment, drinking in louis. he hesitates, breathe stuttering, before nodding, “okay.”

 

-

 

“so,” harry murmurs, pressing a small kiss against louis’ shoulder. dusk is falling and closing in on their last day of half term. students will return tomorrow. louis rolls around to face harry, who looks up with wide, giddy eyes.

“so?” louis mumbles. his muscles hurt. he'd never thought he could be sore from sex, but he's not complaining.

“does this mean you’re going to stop sleeping around? you’re a proper slag, as the rumor goes,” harry says, leaning up on his bicep, cheek squashed against his skin.

louis is fast on his way to sleep. he’s warm and exhausted, his eyes falling shut on their own accord. he nods, pressing his cheek into the clean smell of their shared pillow. “don’t believe rumors,” he murmurs drowsily, “i have a reputation to protect.”

“it’s a little too late for that.”

“haz?”

“yes?” harry asks, voice colored with eagerness. louis finds himself smiling, fingers reaching out to blindly play with harry’s curls.

“i’m going to sleep now. i promise we’ll discuss your inadequacies tomorrow. right after coffee and a cigarette.”

“louis, you’re the most insufferable shit i’ve ever come to know.”

he smiles, eyes already shut, "or that you ever will know."

 

-

 

nothing's changed, of course it hasn't. louis smokes a pack of day and never wears his tie and skims through coursework enough times that liam has returned from worried side glances to frustrated passive aggression once more. they lay about the mozart fountain and harry calls his heiress grandmother and blathers on in french for what seems like ages. he still has sax lessons and he skips rowing purposely to rile niall up. nothing's changed, except the sick feeling in his stomach has thankfully gone missing.

the boys accept harry because louis tells them to, without even having to have a word. they know what it means when someone's been initiated, even though harry's practically an infant. but no matter. louis' always been in a habit of doing what - and who - he pleases.

it's a friday of lazy smoke rings and liam's loud exasperated sighs when zayn props himself up against louis' bedpost, wondering loudly about a party, and louis can see harry's green eyes twinkle, the little shit.

harry’s still a lightweight, but louis likes it when his pupil’s are blown and his body is pliant and willing. he's getting taller, losing his baby fat. he finds it quite cute, albeit rather sloppy, when harry forgets the strict 'no jello' rule.

“see you’ve made things better, then?” liam smirks, sipping a can of stella and gesturing to harry, giggling into a purple jello shot, as niall starts his turn in an ill-planned game of kings cup.

“so i see you've taken a moment to remove your head out of zayn's ass to notice that i’m not drowning in my own self-pity," louis shoots back, and then dramatically sniffs, "you really are an irreplaceable friend.”

liam doesn’t bat an eye. instead, he cocks his head to the left for a moment, scrutinizing louis. “it's been styles the whole time, hasn't it? this the one you've been after?"

fucking liam. but louis is quick, “you think you know it all, liam, but you've actually just got no hair.”

“louis," liam laughs, shaking his head and running his hand through his buzzcut again, "you are such a prat."

louis laughs with him in mostly-agreement. later, harry is endearingly drunk, pink cheeked and pink mouthed. he ends up on louis' back like a curly haired overgrown koala on the way home. louis finds that this time, when harry wants to stop to look at the stars, he doesn't mind.

 

-

 

summer starts soon, but it's england. it’s raining outside. it makes louis think of harry’s hair when it’s wet and dripping on the threadbare carpet. his heart feels thunderous inside his ribcage. harry is supposed to come around after his piano rehearsal. louis has a blunt already rolled for them. _its quality time well spent_ , louis thinks. _if only he knew how lucky he was. i do things. buy him drugs. cuddle him. i carry his drunk arse home and everything._

well. it’s a start.

 

-

 

  



	2. liam

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter contains references and descriptions of child-parent abuse, though there is not first hand instance of it written. Also warnings for underage, excessive drinking, drug taking, language, and internalized homophobic behaviour.

winter 2011 / spring 2012

 

thirty-first of december. liam is wide awake at half six.

 

he has a routine - the same one he's had since he was in his first year at st. peter's. he runs three miles on a wooded trail behind their estate. by six fifty, he's in the shower; this shower has rotating heads and stocked full of shampoo's his mother never finishes or doesn't like anymore. it doesn't run cold after ten minutes like it does at school. liam relaxes. rotates his shoulders. stretches his quads. he forgets that his hair is so short now.

lather, rinse, repeat. teeth brushed. face moisturized. by quarter seven, he's crawling back into his bed.

zayn is still asleep.

there's something peaceful about these moments, that remind liam of a poem he read ages ago, before poetry and love and writing meant anything at all. liam feels like a twat, staring at zayn's face like this - no crinkle around his eyes as he laughs, his skin lighter from the lack of sun. liam's favourite scar intercepting his left eyebrow. beneath all that, though liam knows why these moments are some of his favourites: that guilt stricken look in zayn's eyes won't appear when he catches liam looking a second too long. there is nothing broken between them. liam's heart doesn't feel like it's going to propel itself onto the ground.

he must be more obvious than he thought because moments later zayn stirs, wiping sleepies from his tear ducts, and smiles. his eyes are sunken in and bloodshot. liam guesses he had gone to bed a lot later than he said. there is pen ink on his hands and liam's goose feather pillow.

"you smell nice,” zayn murmurs, rubbing his mouth with his sleeve and rolling closer, smelling like sleep. he tucks his head underneath liam's chin, fingers grazing his hip. liam wants to bat away his hand because it tickles, but that would mean zayn would stop. he doesn't want that. they lie quietly, without speaking. between watching zayn blink and listening to him breathe, it starts to rain.

at nine sharp, his mother is due to wake up and breakfast will be served soon. their moment of peace is over, not to occur again until tomorrow. liam savors it all day in the back of his mind.

 

-

 

“last night of school holiday.”

zayn runs his fingers along liam’s forearms, smiling ruefully. zayn always smiles - has always smiled like he's sharing some painfully unfunny joke with himself. he gaze is fixed on the goosebumps he's creating on liam's forearms.

stop that, liam wants to say. look at me. he can feel zayn already rescind into himself, eyes becoming darker as dusk falls. this daydream is almost over. liam can feel the panic rise up inside him. he smiles up at zayn, pulling him closer between his legs, trying to keep it at bay.

"it's been a good one, i think. even if we're in the middle of derbyshire," zayn chuckles, running his fingers through liam's buzzed hair. it's like he trying to memorize the way he feels.

“derbyshire isn't so bad. you don’t mind the quiet,” liam remarks. he heaves a deep sigh and looks up at zayn from his position on his bed. "so when we return to school, we're..."

“friends,” zayn cuts him off, and liam sours. that's not what he was going to say at all, but it reminds him of the conversation they had at the end of last summer, one he'd like to forget as much as possible.

liam tries to avoid remembering this past summer: australia, zayn and the list of firsts they conquered together through a slow moving, hazy memory lense. everything had looked so beautiful. everything had been so bright.  the sunshine beating on his skin, zayn’s dark tan against his white teeth and their lazy afternoons, stolen away from the rest of the world. it was like time hadn't existed for them. now, time is what dictates every moment they have together.

rules wear liam thin. he holds onto the pieces of zayn he's allowed - two weeks tucked away in derbyshire,  a weekend in soho, or a night spent together in the dorms, if lucky. a whirlwind summer. the rest of their time together is painfully platonic, played cool and uncomplicated. liam helps zayn and niall pick out girls to take home on weekends, and they all follow louis around like he's a bloody trailblazer, with trouble hot on his heels.

too many credit cards, fundraising galas and trips into the city with bored indifference. liam's whole life has been the best that money can buy - but he can't buy this. he can't have it.

at the end of the day, all he has left to lay claim to is friendship. fucking friendship.

at st. peter's, zayn plays his golden boy persona well - just another silver spoon kid, bred to run another conglomerate. liam knows there's more to him than that, because he's seen the slivers of his soul bleed out between the cracks when they're together. and yet. and yet here they are.

liam turns his head away from zayn’s, partly to get away from his fingers. they’re too soft, supple, almost. he knows the feeling of them against his forehead is going to haunt him when he’s awake at night in his dorm. he swallows thickly.

liam doesn’t understand why he says it, because he already knows the answer, “do you ever think that we -”

“liam,” zayn shushes him, pushing him back against the bed and crawling on top of him. “don’t think. it’s our last night.”

their touches are desperate, full of need, liam is filled with dread. it's over again. it's over before it's even started.

 

-

 

their room is more than pigsty. it reeks of pot, alcohol, sex and cigarettes. he looks to his roommate’s slouchy, uninterested form. liam doesn’t know why he’s surprised.

time and time again, liam is reminded that louis is dangerous and beautiful and too clever for his own good. he reeks of privilege, of indulgent hedonism - the way he stands against the wall, leaning, his untied tennis shoes, how his messy hair looks like he had someone running their hands through it. like sex, like power, like louis has always been, in some shape or form.

liam is his best friend. louis always fancies calling liam his wet-blanket, though he's more like a safety net; this is how they work. louis makes a mess, liam cleans up after and they continue on.

it's all liam's ever known. having a person like louis in your life, someone who’s always just barely staying within boundary, is more of a giving than receiving on liam's part. he knows he's sensible. he knows he's boring. he understands he's quiet. a life with louis might be heart-racing, ache inducing, shitstorms of chaos, but a life without louis is a far worse fate. liam's thoughts always circle back to this: perhaps we were made for each other. perhaps there is a reason he can be free and i cannot.

 _but maybe if i was more like him_ , liam thinks as he picks up the room, quietly, because louis is sleeping, _things wouldn’t hurt so much_.

 

-

 

liam's afternoon free period is the perfect time to do his coursework, because louis is god-knows-where during the middle of the day, probably smoking and terrorizing younger students. he's half way through a first draft for a world war II history paper when zayn slips in his door, clicking it closed.

“aren’t you supposed to be in english language at the moment?” liam's question is ignored in favor of zayn pushing him to make room on his cramped single bed. zayn puts his hands behind his arms and shrugs, nonplussed about missing class.

“you’ve got intro tomorrow with louis, yeah?” liam muses. where zayn obviously has distaste for attending his courses, he makes up for it in the raw talent he has with his music. in a parallel universe, where his last name didn't come attached to a international business empire, liam is still sure zayn could have attended st. peter's on a talent scholarship alone. even though he was a year younger than both louis and him, he was in nearly all their music classes.

“yep,” zayn nods, looking over to liam questionably. liam sets his book on his stomach. “why?”

“i’m worried," liam admits, resisting to the urge to defend himself. zayn has always said in the past that louis can take care of himself - but this is different. and liam knows louis.

“why bother worrying about him, liam? just let tomlinson wreak as much havoc as he wants and enjoy the ride. he'll learn his lesson sooner or later."

“it's not his usual obnoxiousness that i'm talking about. he's just..off."

“off how?”

“he's sleeping too much, even for him. he hasn't made fun of my hair for a week nearly, and..he's stopped smoking, i think.”

“maybe he's stopped making shit up about your hair because you've got none now,” zayn smiles, running his hands through liam's buzzcut.

“i’m just worried. he can’t fuck up his last year. think of the repercussions.”

“liam,” zayn says placatingly, resting his hand on top of liam's. zayn’s hands are impossibly warm against his skin. liam presses the ache in his gut away, putting a silence to the fantasies swirling through his mind. “he’s capable of taking care of himself. but i'll look out, nonetheless.”

“thank you,” liam wants to kiss him. he imagines it in his head, the way his lips feel, his groin hot, his throat tight. all he wants to do is fucking kiss him. instead, he picks up his book. zayn's hand disappears and he rolls over onto his side, studying liam's profile until liam can't take it anymore.

“what?”

“nothing. i’m going to kip in for a bit.”

“you should really be in class,” liam snipes, but not entirely unkind. he isn't capable of being a true arse, and surely that will be the death of him.

“yeah," zayn shrugs, and then he looks through his lashes up at liam like he knows just how to be devastating, "but i’d rather be here with you.”

he both hates and lives off shit like this, moments like this, speaking a language only he and zayn understand. it's a disgusting cycle: as soon as liam is able to grip with the fact that zayn does not want to be a relationship - cannot be in a relationship, zayn will come and curl up next to him, asking for his full attention, holding his hand. it's like he knows he shouldn't, but he can't help himself, and he knows liam is caught halfway between resentful and elated.

 _well, fuck it_ , liam thinks to himself. it's going to be painful either way.

 

-

louis is unraveling, and he won't tell liam why. he tries not to ask, knows that they don't have this kind of relationship; that it's always been louis looking out for liam in that fiercely protective, non-emotional kind of way, and liam trailing after him, making sure the fire within louis doesn't burn him from the inside out. under the heated gaze of a year 11 with too much curly hair and freakishly large eyes, louis' ears turn bright red, and something in liam goes, ah.

it makes sense. louis is only this blatantly cruel when he feels threatened. zayn and niall chuckle along as harry styles leaves, hurt and embarrassment obvious on his face. the boys sit around the mozart fountain, their spot since coming to st. peter's. all liam can do is study his best friend. louis' eyes screams vulnerable, even when his posture is deliberately portraying something else entirely. and that's it, right there, liam knows, that's louis in a nutshell.

liam's seen this before, when louis has gotten too close to something, something he wants but tells himself he can't have. liam remembers. when louis panics, he's more than just an ace prick - his words cut and scar and mangle. liam’s built up a good skin over the years.

-

later, he wishes he was tough enough to resist zayn when he comes to visit him that night. he'd been studying in his room rather than his usual post at the library because louis is off gallivanting in town with niall, doing only god knows, and it had been peaceful, curled up underneath his duvet.

zayn's eyes are hooded and up close liam can see that his pupils are blown wide and black. "liam," zayn croaks, shucking off his red jumper and his runners and crawling in beside liam, pressing up close on his tiny twin bed.

"you okay?" liam asks, heart thumping. zayn shakes his head, lips pursed, before reaching up and brushing back liam's eyebrow with the pad of his finger. "zayn - "

"shh," zayn shushes him, "please just me have this. it's been such a shit week."

liam sucks in a breath, pushing his reading off his lap. he nods and zayn closes his eyes for a moment, his whole face screwed up. liam thinks he might cry, but he doesn't. when he opens his eyes again, they are dark and lusting and full of something sad. zayn kisses him, slowly at first and turning more manic, pressing against liam like he's pressing his bow against his cello, sporadic and hurried and fucking beautiful.

liam can feel his dick trapped between his monogrammed pyjamas and his pants' waistband, and zayn is quick to palm him, sucking on his tongue and making these small rotations with his hand. liam thrusts up into his palm, all inhibitions forgotten. all the blood in his body is most likely in his cock right now.

zayn breathes hotly onto liam's neck, tongue poking out to press on his jugular. liam can't deal. he can't.

"don't stop," he pants, thrusting harder up into zayn's palm, not even bothering to shuck his trousers.

"i won't," zayn breathes, and it doesn't take long to bring him to the edge, because zayn knows liam's body like no one bloody else does.

"don't leave me," he blathers on, mouth moving to his own accord. zayn doesn't respond a second time, instead opting to press the heel of his hand against liam harder. he comes with a cut off sigh, biting on zayn's lip and feeling his back tighten and his spine shiver.

liam opens his eyes. zayn is a hot, needy mess, panting into liam's mouth and humping the air in small circles. liam kisses him, mouth moving around his throat and biting down, eliciting a small sigh from zayn. liam dips his hand inside zayn's trackies and pumps him, precome smearing on his palm and down zayn's shaft.

"i'll take care of you," liam promises quietly. zayn keens, looking at him pleadingly, fucking erratically into liam's hand. everything is over before it even starts, the heady scent of zayn on his hand, the taste of his mouth, the clacking of their teeth as they hurry to touch each other. zayn comes with a choked sob and buries his face into liam's neck.

zayn doesn't stay. instead he cleans himself off with a stained t shirt in liam's dirty clothes bin. he looks absolutely fucking wrecked. zayn comes over and stands over liam, cupping his cheeks. "just one more kiss," he asks. liam closes the gap between them.

later, liam wishes he had said no, it hurts too much, i don’t want this anymore.

-

he ends his bi-weekly chat with his mum on a rainy afternoon. it's the first time in a long time he's had to be quiet during the evening hours: louis is curled up under his blankets, pretending to be asleep. he hasn't been able to focus on anything but his best friend since he's come back from classes - even his mother's tinkling, northern accent sounds tinny and far away. after she's gone through her weekly live-in staff drama, a charity luncheon and bemoaning how hard it is to find a good first class ticket to paris for a weekend, she ends with her usual, "i miss you, i love you, and i'll hope to see you soon, liam."

liam can hear the longing in her voice. he can almost imagine the way her eyes drift off, probably in the sunroom facing the gardens, slippers still on her feet. their home in derbyshire is old, romantic, and abundant with english-country charm. but it was his father who loved that estate, not his mother, who preferred their summer home in spain or the château in nice. he knows the walls echo her husband's abandonment, reflects the obvious state of her loneliness. their names haven’t been in the papers for a few years, but the scandal still lingers. he aches for her.

he hangs up with a promise to call her next week. louis rolls around, one hand tucked underneath his cheek.

"you going to tell me what's going on, lou?" he asks, somewhat exasperatedly. louis makes a face, but it falls a moment later.

“are you in love with zayn?” louis asks, voice small and tired. liam knows that voice, half-pleading, half-indignant; he hears it often coming from zayn himself. his stomach lurches uncomfortably, even though he and zayn are nothing if not completely fucking obvious to someone like louis. sometimes he wonders why he doesn't know better, why he can't hide it; he and louis are boys raised to sniff out fallacies and lies. façades put on by the elite and corrupt are clever and pretty, but they are only façades, after all.

“what?” he asks, hoping louis will drop it.

louis might be free and restless but he is breakable. liam sees this. liam has always seen this.

liam wants to tell him the reason they can't be together, because of zayn's father, because of zayn's future. these are the same things he tells himself, when zayn draws away from his touch, doesn't return his texts, averts his gaze. one moment hot, one moment cold, and liam is always left wanting. he doesn't want to face what could possibly be the real reason, beneath all the bullshit: that zayn doesn't love him the way liam loves zayn.

and that's the thing about the company liam and louis have kept since birth, fed so well on their silver spoons: they are equally talented at telling lies as they are uncovering them.

-

liam is a good boy. liam is a good boy because he grew up incredibly lonely as an only child, shuffled from nanny to nanny. he is a good boy because his mother is dainty and delicate and can't be bothered to ever raise her voice. she smells like chanel and kept her hair short and always, always, kissed him goodnight. he is a good boy because when their father left them for his mistress his mother didn't shed a single tear, but she made it clear that he was the man of the house now, that he was supposed to lead what little family they had left. he tries not to do too many drugs, he is loyal to his friends, and he calls his mother often so she doesn't feel so alone. his grades are some of the best in his class. he practices his cello. liam is a good, good boy.

things are not easy for liam like they are for zayn, and certainly not the way they fall into place for louis; perhaps this is because he tries too hard or works too stringently, because he’s had the same morning routine for almost ten years and can’t shake it. he's never minded being quiet, especially when people gravitated to louis like he was the universe. if louis emulates the sun and all it's harsh, dangerous, beauty; then liam is his moon with it's soft glow. he's never minded before. this is the way his life works. this is the way it is.

zayn is another story - he's not the sun or the moon or the earth or the stars; he's no poetic bullshit and liam doesn't make him out to be. zayn is a lot to handle and yet leaves no trail in his wake. but maybe that isn't quite true: he's certainly burned his imprint into liam. he is louis' instigator, partner in crime, and sometimes an absolute menace; moody and secretive and pessimistic and vain. he's primed to head one of the top corporate businesses in london when he finishes university, and that means his reputation is carefully crafted and cared for. that means no liam involved.

liam doesn't know when it got so bad. he doesn't know when he started waking up in the morning with an ache already spreading in his gut, terrified if zayn was even going to spare him a second glance or utter a sentence in his direction. he doesn't know when it became a matter of counting the days until zayn caved again and came to liam, looking for sanctuary. liam is a human, not a home. he's not sure zayn understands.

there's a difference between mates taking the piss and sharing one off between each other - louis is definitely the expert on touching his friends inappropriately - and what he has with zayn. every touch means something. every look holds importance.

sick to his stomach for another week in a row, liam's starting to wish it didn't mean anything at all.

-

it had been the week before classes started after their whirlwind holiday in australia, when liam had kissed zayn in the malik's primrose hill estate. the sun had been shining through the arched kitchen windows. zayn’s younger sister had seen them by accident and a few things happened at once: zayn had pushed liam away like he was burned, rushing him out of the house without even giving him time to put his shoes back on and slamming the door in his face. tears stinging his eyes, liam had not understood.

it wasn't until they all met up a week later at niall's parent’s home in chelsea that liam saw him again. zayn had come to him that same night, naked with grief and guilt. he sat on the edge of liam's bed and taken off an armani leather cuff and his links bracelet to reveal his bandaged wrist. underneath it, the skin was raw and red and charred in places. liam had nearly cried in confusion, zayn had just grimaced quietly and recovered it.

“she didn't meant to but - safaa told my father,” zayn had whispered, shame written all over his face. “i - i wanted to explain everything - this is why we can’t, yeah?"

that night, zayn curled up next to him. liam had promised, "it's okay, we'll survive this."

but zayn shook his head sadly, like it was already decided for him. "no, li," he has whispered somberly, "we won't."

-

spring half-term sneaks up on them. the first saturday after break begins is dewy, cold and wet when liam goes for his run. usually this is his one moment of peace, an escape from louis' soft snoring or boys running up and down the halls or re-reading zayn's text messages and thinking what they could mean - none of that occurs when liam runs. but he finds himself too overwhelmed by the short amount of time they have - just nine days, really, and what that means for him and zayn. if there is a zayn and him.

he gets a stitch in his side three quarters of the way and walks back to the main hall, where breakfast has started up a queue. students are already getting picked up in town cars and range rovers, random friends and class acquaintances waving and saluting him goodbye as he passes them back into the school, sweaty and chilled.

the boys are already at their table in the dining hall. niall has half the breakfast bar on his plate, skyping his sister on his iphone with one ear bud in, and absent-mindedly stirring a protein shake. louis looks tired and like he's ready to decapitate anyone who so much as looks at their way, let alone approach them. liam sits down with a bowl of greek yoghurt and granola - what he always eats for breakfast, and tries not to watch zayn watch louis, cigarette behind his ear.

they sit in silence albeit for niall's throaty laughter, going on about some private joke. liam doesn't really understand. he's never had a sibling, let alone a twin. he eats quietly, keeping his head down and is about to finish when louis stands up abruptly, cutlery clattering and hurries off in the direction of the dormitories. liam thinks he sees a head of curly hair, but he could have imagined it.

"so," zayn murmurs, as if louis' departure was nothing out of the ordinary. he taps the middle of the table with his lighter like he needs to get liam's attention. "you going to back to derbyshire for the week with your mum or down to spain?"

"south of france, actually. one of her father's friends lent us one of his smaller yachts because according to him, it hadn't 'been put to good use for a while.'"

"sounds like shit," zayn smiles, eyes sparkling. "i don't remember getting an invitation from her this time round. i'm hurt, liam."

liam rolls his eyes, scrunching up his face so his smile won't split his lip, "she's been busy organising some floral show up there, among other things she manages to volunteer for. but of course you're invited - mum expects you there, as a matter of fact."

"well, if your mum expects me," zayn rolls his eyes, leaning back into his chair and smirking. "suppose i could clear my schedule."

"oi!" niall interjects, and liam had nearly forgotten he was there. he feels immediately guilty, though niall has never been the sort to take that shite personally. throwing shade has always been louis' specialty, so understandably he also is the one to be most upset by it. "you were gonna be fucking around me home this week, or do you not remember?"

zayn tugs on a lock of niall's hair affectionately, "we can do that any old time. liam's mum has gone through all this trouble for a yacht, niall. i've never been on one."

niall narrows his eyes, a thin frown on his face, "last summer, before you went down under? the blachetta gala opening? we did mdma and woke up naked in one of the hot tubs, remember? and that wasn't even the first time you've been on a bloody yacht, zayn."

zayn laughs wolfishly, fluttering his eyelids. liam's gut lurches. "good times, that. always my best mate, nialler, you know that."

"cheeky fucking cunt," niall grins, casting a significant look between liam and zayn that makes liam's hair stand on end, "i'll see you when i get back, but you facking owe me a pint or five."

zayn stands up, cuffing niall slightly that could be read as churlish but liam understands as affectionate. niall waves him off, returning to his conversation, and zayn slings his army jacket over his shoulders. he looks down at liam expectantly. "coming, or what? we've got to pack, liam."

 

-

 

the ocean is beautiful and endless. liam's mother drinks more than she usually allows herself, pedicured toes kicked back on tiny ottomans as she sips mimosas and bloody mary's. zayn entertains her, mostly, because she rarely gets to see him and she loves him - liam can literally feel her adoration for zayn, the way she listens to everything he has to thinks about the moon and more. and liam has a feeling that there is more in it for zayn than just having a nice holiday and being with liam - it also means there is someone who wants to hear what he has to say. liam gets the impression that this isn't always the case with his own family.

the soft tide doesn't rock the yacht, and yet the lull still sinks liam into a stupor filled with early mornings and quiet nights. he slips into falling in love with zayn like a dream, touching him as if he's never been burned before. it's nice, pretending the world is their oyster, that their last names and futures are worth shit and squander for a moment.

both zayn and liam, at the request of liam's mum, bring their cellos and play her pieces for their most recent recitals. while liam is precise and plays without mistake or falter, his bow emitting flawless sound, zayn is loud and fervent and evokes feeling. he is inventive in a way that always leaves liam torn between reproachful or jealous at his complete disregard for control.

that night, after his mum bids them good night, drunk on champagne and smiling like a girl into her silk shift, zayn produces a small bag of coke.

"saved it, just for us," he whispers into liam's jawbone, "loosen up, liam. have a good time with me."

liam does. zayn divides it, combing it with a small flat edge of his father's company credit card, making sure to eliminate any clumps. they snort it off the wet bar's glass tabletop, giggling into their sleeves as they wipe their noses. zayn can't stop laughing into liam's neck and clutching on to him like a lifeline. they stumble around, stripping underneath a half moon and diving into the pool on the front deck, reckless and cold and higher than the heavens.

water drips from zayn's heavy eyelashes as he wades towards liam by the shallow end, and even though liam can barely focus and his heart is jack rabbiting a mile a minute, he doesn't move. instead, he stays frigidly still as zayn reaches for him, wrinkled fingers cupping his cheeks, clicking his teeth together.

"you're so fucking beautiful," zayn giggles, nosing at his cheek. "so fucking gorgeous."

they crash eventually. it's good shit, but it never lasts for an eternity like liam always thinks it will. zayn, still wet and positively reeking of chlorine, curls up next to liam on their bunk, clutching onto his arm like he’s terrified he might slip away.

 

-

 

on the last night of half-term, zayn smells like salt and seawater and clean air. it will be a true tragedy to return to surrey and st. peters, where it smells like wet brick and cigarette smoke and school issue linen. liam prefers it here, wrapped up in each other on their bunk, open and free and never touching ground.

“you sniffing my hair?” zayn's asks, brow furrowed as he looks up at liam, laughing quietly. his skin is still damp from the shower he took.

“you smell like the ocean,” liam explains, pressing his nose up into zayn’s hair again. it’s flat and presses against his forehead; without the gelled quiff he's softer somehow, less intense. liam likes it quite a bit, and he expresses this by running his fingers lightly along his scalp.

it's quiet except for the waves outside. all liam can focus on is the heat zayn is supplying against his side. it isn't until zayn shuffles closer, fingers slipping underneath liam's jumper. they're cold, eliciting a trail of goosebumps up his spine.

“liam,” zayn groans, breaking the spell. liam stops, nervous he’s pushing at a boundary. he waits for zayn to bat his hand away and saying something like, let's turn out the light, yeah? i'm knackered. but zayn’s cheeks are flushed pink, his eyes hooded and lusty dark. “the things you do to me.”

it sets them both off like the flip of a light switch - zayn shrugging out of his henley and liam trying to get his crew neck up around his head as fast as possible. his heart is beating incredibly fast as he rolls over on top of zayn, helping his hips wiggle out of his flannel pyjamas, his fingers scrabbling for skin to touch. liam's gut is in his throat and it's like his brain can't configure that this is actually happening, that for once, it isn't a figment of his imagination, or a fantasy, but this is real - this is zayn. underneath him. panting. wanting. fucking fuck.

"why'd you stop?" zayn murmurs, surging up to capture liam's bottom lip between his teeth. then he looks down between them, following liam's line of sight down to a mottled yellow bruise on his hip. he sighs heavily, head falling back between his shoulderblades.

"i didn't tell you because you'd be upset, liam. it's nothing," he says monotonously, a hint of annoyance present in his voice.

"when?" liam breathes, the pads of his fingers grazing over it. zayn hisses when he presses into his skin, turning the yellowish purple to white and blue.

"a week, or two, ago. look, it doesn't matter. are you going to kiss me or not?" zayn huffs, and liam nods quietly, pressing his hand over the bruise and the hot skin there. he leans down, licking his lips, before kissing it.

zayn lets his head fall back against the pillow again, apparently satisfied that liam's dropped it. liam has a million questions and wants a million answers and even more moments like this. zayn laughs quietly under his breath when liam nuzzles his face, hands cupping the underside of his jaw.

liam wants to say, _i love it when you laugh. you're so beautiful_. instead he says: "lets make this a good night, yeah?"

zayn seems to know exactly what those words are holding underneath. he looks straight at liam through his thick eyelashes, a ghost of a smile curling around his face before nodding quietly. "yeah."

zayn rolls them over and pulls off liam’s jumper and boxer shorts in one movement. liam's been pressing into the sharp peak of zayn's hipbone and he's already half hard, his hips moving in tiny increments that zayn supplements with his own sporadic jerks. the ocean seeking the shore. the tide and the pull. the irony is never lost on liam.

liam reaches down to cup zayn through his boxers, drawing his fingers up the shaft and feeling the heat pool at the base of zayn's cock. he frees zayn of his pants a moment later and shimmies down, breathing on the tip of his dick. zayn lets out a sound like he was holding his breath, shifting his hips ever so slightly. liam grips his sides, holding him in place as he leans down to kiss the head of zayn's cock before sucking him down. zayn groans, thighs twitching, and he smells like sweat and boy and liam can't even think.

zayn's fingers are scrabbling around liam's crown and neck for something to hold on to as liam swirls his tongue around, hand cupping the base of his dick where his mouth won't go. he breathes in carefully, mindful not to choke as zayn's dick hits the back of his throat suddenly and zayn is murmuring under his breath, neck tipped back and throat open for the taking. liam pulls off with a wet pop. his face is blazing hot and most likely blooming red.

"are you going to come?" he asks quietly, and zayn whimpers, nodding.

"where do you want me to?" zayn whispers, hips bucking up, dick swollen and purple. it looks painful. liam can't take his eyes off it.

"wherever you want," liam answers honestly. "in my mouth."

"what if i wanted you to fuck me?" zayn asks after a beat, his eyes resolutely closed like he can't face looking at liam right now. liam isn't sure if he'd want to see. all he can hear is the blood rushing in his ears and the sound of zayn's heavy breathing. another beat.

then: "yeah?" liam breathes. zayn opens his eyes a silver, nodding hurriedly. "you sure?"

"sure."

they've never done this before, and a part of liam knows that this kind of intimacy could never be replicated with anyone but zayn. he's had sex before, with a st. mary's girl and a girl whom he had befriended in france one summer, but it had never been like this: sweaty and tangled and rushed, powerful, gut wrenching, nerve-wracking. important. it had never been important before.

but it is now. liam scrambles around in the dark for his toiletries bag for the one condom he kept in there and a small packet of lube he had gotten from the clinic last time niall had gone to pick up condoms and hadn't wanted his family doctor to report back to his parents about his sexual activity. they all ran in the same circles, and word got around.

zayn watches him with hooded eyes, his hand slowly pulsing his dick. liam thumbs the bone of his sternum, finding it slightly damp with a thin sheen of sweat. he crawls over zayn, straddling him and leaning down to kiss him. zayn tastes like salt, like promise. liam never wants this night to end.

zayn’s eyes are dark and lidded as he pulls liam flush against him, dick caught between their stomachs and his breath tickles liam's neck when he shudders quietly, “i want it to be you. i want you, i want you.”

“okay,” liam’s teeth bite gently down on his upper lip. "i'm yours."

liam nudges a knee between zayn's legs, parting them and zayn cants his hips upwards towards liam, eyes skimming down his skinny torso to peer down at liam. he nods once at liam, conversing silently in their old language, _it's okay. i won't regret this._

liam blinks, _i hope you don't._

he holds himself together as zayn falls apart. he looks so beautiful, so raw, brow furrowed and lips parted with pleading. liam wonders how he ever has the self control to refuse this on a daily basis, how he doesn’t just take what he pleases and gives in. because this feeling makes him want to scream from the top of st. peter's, in primrose hill in front of zayn's front door, on the grassy knolls in derbyshire, from the pillars of every city, in all the corners of the world, _i love you. i fucking love you._

when zayn comes, it’s a slick hot spurt between their stomachs, and liam swears he sees stars but it's more than likely a trick of the light.

-

 

they return to school the next afternoon. half term was too short. liam feels the urge to tell the driver to turn back around several times, half panicked. _i need more time with you_ , he wants to confess. it was barely a taste.

louis looks less gaunt when liam hustles his bag into their room. he immediately notices the lack of empty cigarette cartons that usually decorates their floor and the startling picture of louis doing course work. as he dumps his laundry into his basket and slides his bag underneath his bed, he squints at a crumpled up page of beethoven next to a pair of floppy red converse that belong to neither of them.

"you've had someone over?" liam asks nonchalantly, digging in for the nerve.

louis' eyes flit up to liam, his gaze hard. "dunno. you blow your load with zayn this week?" he doesn't wait for liam to answer, just takes in the twisted grimace liam knows he's sporting and smiles, sickly sweet and plasticine, "thought so."

 

-

 

it's their last party before term ends, and for liam and louis, their last st. peter's party. liam doesn't know if he'll really miss driving out in the middle of surrey to stand around in a cold, wet field and get drunk on packs of cheap beer, nor trying to get beer from the old man who runs the pub closest to the school, but for nostalgia's sake, and louis' incessant nagging to stop being a wet blanket, liam endures.

zayn is nowhere to be seen. they haven't spoken for three weeks, now - a record, really. liam's pretending the way his hands go numb have nothing do with it. he tells louis he's gotten constant acid reflux, and it's become such a often excuse liam is starting to believe it. sadness has become his sea. he wishes anger was his island. it'd be easier.

the party and his friends and his mates are distracting and loud, louis returning as the iridescent, indecent center of attention. liam watches as he eggs on poor harry styles to down as many jello shots as possible until the kid flopped pathetically into the grass. this faux-defeat would not deter louis, liam knows from experience. and sure enough, a moment later, louis scoops him up, throwing him over his shoulder and cheering, absolutely unstoppable.

niall and his mates are crowded around the beefy set of rowing mates, all seemingly in a competition as to who can down their carlsberg the fastest. niall throws his can down first, rubbing his mouth with the back of his wrist. he gives liam a thumbs up from across the field, patting his hand over his heart a moment later. liam smiles back, rolling his eyes.

liam's distracted enough by the noise and the celebratory raunchiness that this was turning into that he didn't notice that zayn had crawled right into periphery, throwing an arm around his neck. liam stiffens immediately.

“liam, my lad,” zayn cries out jovially, and liam laughs at his pink cheeks and glassy brown eyes because that's all he can do.

“mate. bit pissed?” liam says, his voice like gravel as he grabs onto zayn’s arm to steady him. he still wobbles, legs like thin, neatly dressed stilts.

“pissed indeed,” zayn murmurs distantly, before looking up at liam again. "school? will you take me back?"

liam nods, saluting to a hovering niall and shouldering most of zayn's weight. he's always been lithe and lean, opting out of almost every sport they've ever joined protesting stubborn asthma. it goes to show how far zayn can truly get his way when he wants, because he's got to be the single most notorious smoker on campus. asthma, indeed.

louis had drove. they take the extra fifteen minutes to walk back to the dormitories. zayn is unnaturally quiet. in liam's experience he's usually a loquacious drunk. zayn's nose graces the skin on his neck and liam goosebumps. finally he says, "you smell so good, liam."

liam wonders why he's whispering. there's no one around.

“good to know i smell nice,” his laugh has a hollow edge to it as zayn walks crookedly, feet pigeon toed. liam feels the twist in his gut sharpen because zayn is right there and yet he is so fucking far away. he's dangling himself right in front of liam: i know you love me, but only love me from afar.

“oh, well, you do. almost as good as me.”

st. peter's comes into view, the tip of the steeple illuminated by the clear, full moon hung behind it. the spring chill flushes zayn's cheeks slightly. they make their way up to the dorm, and liam has a weak suspicion that his room might be out of reach tonight. so instead he directs them to zayn’s dorm, holding onto him as lightly as he can.

he's not sure if he wants to put as much distance between them or memorize the way he feels so liam has something to savour once zayn disappears again. liam knows what a pathetic fucking prat he is.

zayn holds his arms up and stands there limply. it's something they've done since they all started drinking and zayn could never undress himself, always too uncoordinated or too tired to bother. liam strips him, chucking his jumper and his long sleeve shirt on the floor. zayn shimmies out of his trousers, not even bothering to button them, his pants hanging on his skinny hips. liam forgets how slender he is.

"don't look at me like that," zayn says coyly, his words slurring only slightly. he's eyes are downcast, unable to meet liam's gaze.

"look at you like what?" liam asks, thoroughly confused.

"like you're trying not to blame me for ruining absolutely everything," zayn sighs, and liam nearly lurches. he watches as zayn reaches a hand out, sliding it down his arm and grappling for some fingers to hold on to. liam doesn't return the grip, and so zayn retreats, sighing. "i wish we could be just. together. proper together."

zayn crawls into his bed, sheets scattered at the end of his narrow mattress.

“i would i could kiss you everyday,” zayn confesses and he either doesn't see the pained look on liam's face or he doesn't care. "but you deserve a lot more than me. i'm such a fucking coward, liam. you think the light shines out of my fucking arse, but the truth is."

zayn hums discontentedly, finding a glass of tepid water on his bedside table and spilling half of it on his chin. he wipes at it hastily, flopping back down. "well, you what know what the truth is. and i fucking hate myself for it. and i hate you too. for wanting this so much. you've got no right," zayn accuses, voice full of splinters and dust. he sighs again.

“zayn...,” liam whispers from where he’s standing over zayn when he's gone quiet for a few moments. "why don't you - "

zayn cuts him off with a wave of his hand, ignoring whatever he has to say. he blinks up at the ceiling, a stuttering mannerism to his usual body language. drunk, liam reminds himself hastily. he's fucking off his face drunk.

“i’m sorry. i'm sorry, liam, i'm sorry," he murmurs. "stay here with me. will you stay?"

“course i will, you shit,” liam whispers, tries to smile, but his eyes are cloudy and his voice is damp. he takes off his shoes and crawls in next to him. zayn reaches over and laces his hand with liam, his fingers wet. he smiles his private smile, like everything painful in the world is existing inside his head. when zayn finally falls asleep, liam takes a big, shuddering breath. it is all he has not to break.

 

-

 

despite the hero-worship complex that comes in tow with being friends or even knowing louis tomlinson, most of the population of st. peter's know when to leave louis the fuck alone. he's a self-absorbed cunning can't-be-arsed prick, at best. liam has accepted this. harry, from the rising hysterics as louis winds him up, has not accepted this.

or, so liam understands from the arguing he’s hearing. it's supposed to be his quiet study period - the one that louis is usually absent from, except that harry has somehow been included in their exclusive friend group - exclusive as in, four of them since they started st. peter's and now he's taking up a large part of louis' life, and to an extent, liam's. he hopes this one lasts, because the fallout would be, in louis' case, down right dangerous.

before liam is even half through his dorm, harry pushes past him. his cheeks are a patchy, uneven pink and his eyes are red. louis looks downright livid - for whatever reason, liam never bothers anymore - before storming away after harry. liam stands in the mess of their dorm room, without saying a word.

he follows them, because he doesn't want this to get out of hand and he doesn't want other people to see it happening. louis has never given a shit about his reputation, but he is the only person who has claim left to the the famed 'tomlinson' name and liam cares. liam has always fucking cared.

they’re on a side lawn by the english department, a half a meter away from the year thirteen dorms. he isn’t sure what they’re arguing about, but harry looks like he burst a blood vessel and louis looks to be talking so fast he might as well be spitting every other word. half of his speech doesn’t even sound like english anymore. liam looks on cautiously until harry makes a rude hand gesture and louis lunges at him. liam is shaken into action.

“what the fuck is this?" he yells, putting the entirety of his body between both louis and harry. he's broader than both of them, and taller, too. this only serves as an advantage until harry decides it's a good idea to get to louis through liam, and fucking honestly, liam has enough of his own shit to deal with. enough is enough.

"what the fuck is going on?" he demands again, pressing a firm hand against harry's bony chest and pushing him away. harry's eyes are dark and hooded, cheeks puffed out angrily.

“ _il est un salope_!” harry shouts suddenly. spit flies from his mouth, and he wipes at his face crudely. “ _con_. you’re a cunt, louis.”

“yeah?" louis narrows his eyes dangerously,  "well you’re a fucking shit who doesn’t know how to mind his own goddamn business!”

“me? maybe i could if you didn't parade your pretentious trophy collection of every girl you've ever fucked to the boys in art -”

“i honestly cannot believe you're bothered by it, seeing as just yesterday you were practically gagging for it -”

“would you two just shut up?” liam yells, looking between them. harry looks like a petulant, half-crazed child and louis is glaring mutinously around liam's shoulder.

liam doesn’t get an answer, so he figures there really isn’t one. “you've both been cunts to each other, just apologise, and stop.”

“and what do you know about a good cunt, little liam payne?" louis snarks, smiling ruefully. "you fucking wanker."

“louis,” liam groans exasperatedly, and removes his hands from between the two. “whatever is, i’m sure it was your fault. you’re a twat, all around.”

“i concur,” harry crosses his arms and looks down his nose at louis, which is a feat, considering he's a tad shorter. “the biggest in the universe.”

“quit while you're fucking ahead, styles,” louis glares and pulls out a cigarette from his breast pocket of his t shirt. before he can light it, harry moves to take it out of his mouth. liam sees this coming before it goes into frustration.

louis blows smoke in harry’s face, just to aggravate him. this is probably the moment, in retrospect, when liam realizes how fucking gone louis is. he's completely smitten with this boy, and louis feels everything in ten folds and spades. he squishes out the jealousy that threatens to rip him apart. they're allowed to be together and want to be together and waste their time being together by arguing and liam could fucking puke. he steps out from between them.

“i'm sure you lovebirds will settle this the way you know best," liam sighs, before adjusting his tie and opening the door back up into the dorms. he fancies himself a cup of tea, and a good dose of wallowing, and some light reading before dinner.

louis calls after him, “lovebird? who the the fuck are you calling a lovebird - ”

liam’s half way up the stairs before louis can finish his sentence.

 

-

 

both louis and harry are noticeably absent from dinner. when liam goes to retrieve his books, their door is jammed shut. liam doesn't listen in. he doesn't want to know, but he can imagine, and that's enough.

 

-

 

spring is coming to a close. exams are to be taken. the end of year thirteen is just around the corner.

liam bows his head low and studies for his exams. he tells himself this is the only reason - but it's also the fact that he's leaving st. peter's, for good. his comfort zone. a sanctuary, a place of architectural beauty, a foundation liam has riddled with memories and secrets. his home away from home.

boys under year thirteen go home for the week before buckling down for exams - a luxury liam does not have, given the amount of work he has. zayn and niall both went home, briefly, and liam wonders how louis is coping with course work, because harry did not go home like the rest.

except for a bourgeois last name and enough old money to send new money packing, harry does not seem to be much of a st.peter's boy by definition. no controlling unimpressed parents, or formulated future, or frequent whisking away for unnecessary holidays. nor does he seem to have any friends at st. peter's, or strong networking among other families, or his last name mentioned even briefly in the papers. he is a ghost in their world, an absurd outsider to the land of prestige and pretentiousness. all harry has is his french inherited good looks and pure, raw, talent. perhaps this is why louis likes him so much.

the following monday morning zayn is not at breakfast.

"but didn't he go to chelsea with you this weekend?" liam squints when niall shakes his head at zayn's absence, shoveling food in his mouth.

"annie and i decided we needed a well deserved pub crawl in east london. can't say i've even been sober until this very moment," niall explains, chewing and swallowing harshly.

"miss that sister of your’s, nialler," louis grins, nudging him and eliciting a grin out of niall. louis turns to liam, "must have gone home to his own, li."

louis' eyes flash just once, like, please understand what i'm implying. he returns to his meal and his ipad, half propped on a tall stack of serviettes. harry's head is wrapped up in his forearms, sound asleep on the table next to louis, not bothering to touch his full plate of fruit and cheese. liam wrinkles his nose at it. he absolutely despises the french diet.

he leaves breakfast early in search of zayn. maybe he shouldn't, seeing as they haven't spoken about their time on the yacht and they've barely had more than laddy banter since the night liam took zayn back after the last party of the year. in fact, he knows he shouldn't, but perhaps the stress of the year ending and his life starting is wearing on him. perhaps he's already lost it.

zayn is a soft lump in his bed, buried beneath two or three duvets. from what liam can tell of his breathing, he's asleep still.

“zayn?” he whispers, shutting the door behind him and walking over to the bed. he opens the blankets and crawls in, body welcoming the warmth that emits. zayn curls into him, still asleep, murmuring something unintelligible against liam’s neck.

by the time zayn has woken up, slowly, blinking back to life, liam has definitely missed his first window to get some studying in before his exams later today. but liam can already tell from the heavy, lidded stare that zayn is giving that this is far more important.

“why weren’t you in class?” liam asks softly, treading lightly. he can feel zayn's fingers sneak between the buttons of his dress shirt and graze the small makings of liam's blonde happy trail.

“i came back this morning, early,” zayn whispers. his eyes fall shut again, like he's about to go back to sleep, "dad and i had a row." liam’s heart constricts inside his ribcage.

“what happened?” liam nudges closer, tangling his socked feet with zayn's bare ones. zayn sighs a quiet, tired sigh. his eyelashes flutter, i am so fucking sick of this shit.

“he caught me in a lie. was supposed to be at school for half term. thought, if i went and fucked about at niall's, it'd be fine,” zayn swallows. "but i didn't. i went with you. and word got back to him."

“and then what happened?” liam presses on, taking zayn’s fingers and intertwining them with his own.

“i was so fucking angry. he has no right. i can do what i want as long as - he can't prove anything," zayn swallows, and liam thinks it looks like he’s burying himself further into his skin. “he 'disciplined' me for lying."

zayn whines low in his throat, tension nearly audible as it forges wars in his chest. liam holds his breath. "he has my whole future planned out. my education at kings, my trust fund, my mum and sisters are all in his power. i live my life thinking i do thing out of line and i'll lose it all. and i just can't, liam, i just can't fucking live like this. i fucking hate this," two singular tear tracks roll down zayn's cheeks as he clears his throat. liam doesn't dare breathe.

liam wants to say, _don’t cry. don't be sad. we'll survive this, zayn_. but liam knows - he knows now, in the deep marrow of his bones, that maybe that isn't necessarily true. for the first time, he aches solely for zayn. he's finally starting to grasp that what is at stake here isn't just liam's wounded pride. he has wants, but zayn's has needs, and they both can't co-exist.

so liam takes him into his arms, even though he knows he smells like breakfast food and louis’ last cigarette, and he cradles him close. he tells himself it isn't the last time he ever holds zayn.

there is nothing he can say to make this better. so he doesn’t say anything at all.

 

-

 

liam and louis finish their exams. summer starts soon.

harry plays a small piece at the award ceremony. liam watches from his spot on the platform, dressed st. peter's maroon and forest green, hands bundled into tight, nervous fists. harry finishes, takes a small bow, and leaves quickly. he is sort of beautiful, liam surmises, if beautiful was transcribed as young and fiery and too bright for his own good. he sneaks a glance at louis, whose eyes trail after harry, and he bites back a smug smile.

his results, though not released until july, are a near shoo in for an neat top spot at king's college. louis should be attending no matter his results, because he has already donated a large sum of money to their trust, and liam looks to him as they filter out, sharing one last inside laugh. louis' eyes shine a watery blue as he claps liam on the back, rubbing the top of his head. liam pretends not to notice. even golden boys go soft.

his mother holds a bouquet of lilies intended for him that she ends up keeping for herself because they’re so beautiful. zayn is standing near the back with niall and some of niall's rowers. they cheer when they see liam, lewdly, who gives a small, cheeky curtsy. zayn smiles at him privately from his spot in the back, and liam bares a half smile in return.

it’s the end of the beginning, he thinks to himself, catching zayn’s eye a second time from across the lawn. zayn smiles with all his pearly, perfect teeth, cheeks glowing, a certain softness in his eyes. liam isn’t able to go to him now, take him in his arms, sweep him up in a hug - and even though his body tugs impatiently, it’s bearable. it can wait.

because the world awaits them. it's no longer just st. peter's wet brick walls and too thin mattresses and liam's hurt feelings. there is more to them than that. there is a whole universe of them that liam can explore. as much as he loves zayn - there is no point in holding onto something they'll never have. there is no longer the privilege of pretending to be someone else. they may never have their tragedies strung up under the stars. and so it may be that way. liam is ready. there is more to him than just bones and blood and misguided love. there is more.

the maliks' make their exit as they festivities simmer and zayn leaves a parting glance at liam, as if to say, _i'll see you soon._

and liam’s lips turn into a knowing smile, _i know. i’ll wait for you_.

 

-

on the thirty first of may liam wakes up at half six. he goes for a run on the spanish sand near his summer home overlooking the great expanse of sea. at six-fifty, he showers, lathers, rinses, repeats. teeth brushed, face moisturised. by quarter seven, he returns back to his room.

zayn is still asleep.

  
-

 


	3. harry

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Drinking, drugs, general abusive addictive behavior is described. Child abuse between parent-child is also relevant to this chapter, though no instance of abuse takes place directly.
> 
> This story contains toxic relationships that are unhealthy and abusive and written purposely this way. This includes neglecting physical and mental health for the sake of a relationship.
> 
> The lyrics referenced are from Death Cab for Cutie's Sarah's Song, a throwback.

summer 2013

 

year twelve wraps up with a fizzle for harry rather than a bang because there's no end celebration like the one louis threw the year before, halfway out the door. it's strange to think of louis as anything but a st. peter's golden boy, the maroon and dark green tie slung lazily around his neck, fingers dented from his sax.

it's weird, harry thinks, that he’ll be in the same year as lou was when they met. up in the towers, harry trails the year thirteen hall, overlooking the green pastures that surround st. peter's south end of campus. all his things are in school storage now, except a rather faded louis vuitton bag with a few of his belongings that he has slung over his shoulder. his driver should be here soon. he should be heading back down to the front green, but instead he lingers outside of louis and liam's old room.

he touches the warped wood of their door, wondering if louis touched the same place.

 

-

 

louis doesn't show up for graduation or to hear harry perform at the ceremony. he pretends not to be bothered by it. he represses the notion that standing ovation he got for his piece would have meant so much more if louis had been standing among them.

it's all shit now.

it's weird, he thinks again, because he's going to return here for another year and it already feels like he should have finished and been done with it. he runs his finger over the smiling face louis had carved into the wood. hi.

louis has just finished his first year at kings in the south london, his nicotine addiction growing at rapid speed and smiles have become sharper as he gallops around the city with his new, thin, university friends. harry had met them once during fall half term the year previous, when louis still lived across from liam in adjoining wolfson house dorms and all them were tall, pale, with cigarettes tucked behind their ears and noses rimmed red from the coke they seemed to always have access to. they were ethereal, in harry's memory. untouchable.

it made him incredibly uneasy. he was soft, breakable, compared to them. young, vulnerable.

a school-free holiday and the possibility of louis all to himself this summer is so tangibly close that it taunts him. harry rounds down the back staircase and into the main hallway, st. peters' ceremony flags still hanging from it's arched rafters. he looks up at them long enough that he runs into someone, and when he refocuses enough to apologize he realises he's run into zayn, decked in his green and dark red st. peter’s fancy dress.

“mate,” zayn nods, eyes twinkling between two thick layers of lashes. harry's never so much as had an actual conversation with zayn, let alone find himself along with him in a abandoned corridor, but he can't deny how absolutely fucking breathtaking zayn malik is. it's not - it isn't just how he looks, the sharp jaw, a long thin nose perched in the centre of his face like it was placed there - but the way he carries himself. confident, untethered. still somewhat kind.

it doesn't help that zayn always has this look in his eye like he sharing a very private joke about you behind his back, and the slight smoulder that seems to reign on his face by default. zayn's on par with louis' level of infectious popularity and dangerous charisma, though he's rather less overambitious. since louis' left, zayn has ruled his class with a quiet, domineering hand.

“oh, hey,” harry nods, internally wincing already as zayn smiles slightly and continues to pass him. when he's caught off balance or embarrassed, his voice - already becoming so deep within the last few months harry's worried if it can actually get lower - seems to slow down to a snail speed pace, the dead remains of his french curling around his mouth. his nonchalant, oh, hey, to zayn, probably lasted about fifteen seconds. fuck.

 

"you seen niall?" harry turns around quickly to the sound of zayn's voice. he looks almost like he regrets asking, but can't turn back now. harry shakes his head, his curls bouncing around his cheeks.

"no, sorry," he says honestly. to think on it, he hadn't seen niall at the awards ceremony, or the dinner before. which is odd, considering niall horan was involved in nearly everything at st. peter's: rowing, rugby, jazz band, some highly coveted president's club that only select boys at st. peter's were allowed to join, etcetera, etcetera. zayn had already resumed walking further into the school before harry's allowed to say anything cool in parting. it's probably for the best.

he checks his watch, another cartier trinket his grandmother had given him last term. quarter past three. shit.

his driver is, in fact, outside, waiting for him patiently in front of a black audi. harry runs a hand through his long, unruly curls, slipping his sunglasses on and shaking his embarrassment as if it sits on his shoulders. he isn't intimidated by zayn - or any of louis' friends, for that matter.

summer greets him as he takes one last look at st. peter's front steps. he already can feel the small smudges of louis' influence start to push him under as he nears closer and closer into london. it feels like he's taking a breath for the first time in a long while, as if his body is exhilarated and fit with nervous, joyful, energy.

he welcomes it.

 

-

 

after nearly an hour wading through london traffic, his driver drops him off near the southwark station at harry's request. louis lives in an apartment with a little front garden surrounded by tall, metal black fencing near the tate modern because he's a pretentious little prick. he slings his bag around his shoulder, minding the damp, cigarette and black tar stained streets of central london as not to taint his pure white lacoste tennies already.

he knocks. waits. knocks again.

“well, well, well,” louis sarcastic drawl is heard even before he's opened the door halfway. he’s wearing a striped jumper and plaid pyjama pants - even though it's nearly five in the evening. his skin is already tanned, despite there being next to no sunshine this past june. it irks harry, how louis just seems to radiate this warmth, this sun touched glow. a smug smile is evident on his face - and harry, harry wants to wipe it away as quickly as possible. 

louis’ gotten even more attractive in the recent year, his skin a prettier shimmer than before, and his hair longer and feathery around his ears. maybe it's way the way he holds his bones now, the way he stretches out and taunts harry closer. harry's not stupid - he took one look at the statuesque girl in louis' first year seminar or the half-japanese boy in his music theology class with the neat little bun of black hair at the nape of his neck, and harry knows. louis is like a magnetic force, pulling people in even when they don't want to. he tries not to keep tabs, but the days at st. peter's were long and nights even longer.

he smiles. he wants to take and mark and maim, save the talking for later. he can already feel his dick swell, half hard against his thigh. this is beyond fucking ridiculous. harry wants to hit himself.

“didn’t show up to the ceremony?” harry says nonchalantly instead of saying something mundane like hello, or even worse, i love you. he swallows. louis looks at him calculatingly, like they're two rivals and not lovers. harry supposes to he's used to this type of greeting from lou. they’re close to same height now and this pleases harry to no end, mostly because it annoys louis in return.

“something came up. not like i have patience for that kind of bullshit anyway," louis drawls as harry sidesteps him into the flat. he’s never been to this particular flat before, as louis just moved in this may for summer classes, nor has he been to louis' family home in south kensington.

harry presumes that's just how louis is, though. if he's has no secrets, he has no power. louis always did prefer taking the trip out to surrey to harry at his dorm during breaks when the school is empty and slightly eerily, where no one would see them.

"oh, yes, please come in, don't mind me,” louis remarks snarkily, rolling his eyes.

harry doesn't mind. he breathes in, inhaling the scent of linen and lavender and louis. he's excited at the prospect of actually being able to stay here for the summer, as he's never really felt at home in england. his only family, besides his elder sister, is his tiny, fragile grandmama selene, who occupies most of her time weedling on about her prime, when she rubbed elbows with princess grace on holidays in monaco and had afternoon tea with coco chanel at the ritz carlton. harry didn't feel much like going back to paris, or nice, for that matter, though he thought privately that they were both much more enjoyable for the summer holidays.

the apartment is attractive and charming, and louis does have good taste for being such new money - something harry'd never say out loud, of course, seeing as louis has a chip on his shoulder the size of the thames about being new money in the first place. it's not louis' fault, per se, that his father was a tragic, famous, musician and not some long lineage of aristocratic french nobility like harry was.

the ceilings are high, with windows just as magnificent, a tiny kitchen with blank granite counter tops to his right, a neat little table for covered in textbooks and a poorly looked after mac book air.

the couches are white linen, with a sheepskin rug and a glass table top, because louis is nothing if not tasteful and at the same time completely tasteless. his father's sacred guitars hang up on near the old fireplace, but otherwise the walls are plain and art-less. harry toes off his shoes near the door, already smeared with dirt near the rim. the white purity was short lived, as it can only be in a city like london.

"this place is lovely, lou,” harry smiles genuinely as louis closes his front door, the slightly chilled breeze drafting in. harry saunters up to louis, intertwining their fingers and pressing a smile into his neck, breathing his scent in so harshly it nearly burns his nose. "you smell of rose hips again. you can't get enough of that lotion, can you." 

louis stiffens, before reaching and petting harry's curls. harry feels his bones melt into it, neck slack. "absolutely not."

“absolutely yes, the evidence is obvious amidst your skin,” harry argues back, nuzzling his nose into the soft fleshiness of louis' neck, nosing his jugular. his fingers trace the severe cut of louis' collarbone.

"you're such a kitten, honestly," louis laughs, petting harry again and bringing him closer. he sounds begrudging but harry knows better than that, knows that louis missed him, too. "let me show you the rest of the flat and get your things settled before you become a puddle. come on."

harry is nothing if not happy to oblige.

 

-

 

there's two bedrooms and a neat little troilet total. louis' room is plain and pale except for his clothes dumped on the floor. he has a balcony that overlooks a decent slice of the city and someone's rose garden below him. harry eyes the bed, hinting towards it, cocking his head innocently to the side when louis rolls his eyes and pushes him along for the rest of the tour. he can't say he didn't try, at least.

the second bedroom really is just a small alcove with glass doors enclosing it and harry thinks it's unimportant until louis pushes himself and announces that it's his room, for playing piano and having alone time if he ever needed it. the window is long and thin and overlooks just a miniscule glimpse of the tate. harry sits down at the small piano, just a standard that louis probably ordered online and had moved in before he arrived. louis stands behind him, slouched down with one arm curled around harry's neck.

he starts to play, and louis whispers filthy things into his ear, kissing the sharp line of harry's jaw until harry forgets what keys he's suppose to be pressing. after a while, louis excuses himself to go start dinner, which apparently he does now - cook. how mundane. harry plays for another half hour, until he can smell something simmering on the hob.

“so domestic. i would have never believed it if i hadn't seen it,” harry smiles as louis attempts to bring the sauce down from a boil and ends up with it splattered on his shirt. he curses under his breath, smearing the sauce into a far worse predicament instead of just leaving it be. typical.

“twit,” louis snarks, not unkindly, "besides, cooking is all the rage now. being organic and what not. growing your own shit."

harry ignores him in favour of taking two plates and setting what spare room there is on the table that louis obviously uses as both his study desk and his dumping ground. four or five of his text books - all on musical history and musical theory, lay open in a scattered mess. despite the tabletop nightmare, harry admits to himself that he is surprised how clean the flat is otherwise - he'd never imagined louis cleaning, but then again, harry supposes that liam had always been there, too.

louis brings a pot of whole grain penne and a bowl of avocado pesto sauce, and then again returns with a large bottle of rose, something harry heartily accepts. his stomach feels achy and bloated all of a sudden, and he eyes the enormous serving of pasta louis is heaping onto his plate little a little housewife with sudden unease.

“i don’t want all this,” harry grumbles, looking up at louis defiantly. he can't exactly explain why the anger rises up in his throat, but he feels indignant and very annoyed all at once. louis opens his mouth, presumably to be rude and uncaring, but instead he closes it a moment later, blue eyes scrutinizing harry.

 

"i'm just not very hungry," harry excuses, playing with the links bracelet on his wrist. the cartier link louis gave him last christmas glints on his wrist against the low light.

“so, eat whatever you want and toss the rest.”

“but," harry says, feeling cornered to an extreme degree now. he wants louis to drop this. he wants to cuddle and roll around in that big, white bed louis has. he doesn't want to be sitting down and do something stupid like eat pasta. "that's wasteful."

it's not his best excuse he's ever concocted on the spot. in all fairness, louis is easily able to sniff out theatrical and calculated lies, as he tells so many of them himself, so it's best to keep it simple.

"harry," louis fixes him with a look, "honestly. i waste exorbitant amounts of money on marbs and a stripper every week, i think i'll bear it if you toss out some goddamn noodles."

“not funny,” harry narrows his eyes at the mention of strippers, false as it probably is. harry doesn't need to entertain any thoughts of louis fucking around with anyone else while he's been away in countryside for most of the year. but louis doesn't answer, instead opting to take fifteen minutes trying to turn off the hob and setting a nat king cole album on his vintage record player because he is truly a music elitist prick and harry can’t be fucked about jazz at all.

by the time he's settled in, harry's helped himself to his second glass of rose and tucked most of his food into his napkin and dumped the rest back onto louis' helping. louis eyes his cleaned plate for a moment, squinting at harry, so harry just smiles cheekily, taking a large gulp of wine and rubbing his hand up louis' leg.

“ _merci_ , lou,” harry murmurs, and it's obvious louis can’t help but smile back at him for a brief second. louis props his legs up on harry’s lap under the table as he eats and bitches about his university friends that he's currently texting. harry feels soothed and a little drunk, blood thick and slippery inside his veins and he wraps his fingers around louis' dainty ankle. he finds himself smiling even though he hadn't meant to.

 

-

 

sweat pools in the middle of his back as he lies spread eagle, sated and sexed out. the front of his forehead buzzes and harry rubs tiny circles into the love bites on the insides of his thighs. louis spent ages teasing them out of him, biting harder every time harry whimpered. louis always loves to tease and harry has to admit he doesn't mind - it's the kind of sex that will fuel fantasies for the school year to come.

he's still stoned as hell, head buzzing, but his limbs feel slow and supple in a way he has no control over. it smells like sweat and stale weed, an afterglow scent of his summers before, and harry sighs, content rumbling in his chest.

louis is perched on his windowsill with his feet planted flat on the bed, nursing a cigarette and squinting outside because he couldn't be fucked to put on his glasses. it's such a familiar sight to harry that it makes his gut clench.

they're just about settled in for bed after louis' sucked down his final cigarette and brushed his teeth. he pulls harry up by his arms, huffing as harry lets himself give into dead weight. louis brushes back the sweaty curls from his face, humming in a way that lulls harry into sleep, arse naked and sitting up. he doesn't care. he's tired, and weed makes him lethargic.

louis slides an oversized t shirt over harry's shoulders, foregoing the task of trying to put pants on him at this point, and gently pushes him down onto the mattress, rolling him to the far side. harry feels louis lie down beside him, quiet and soft, as he scoots closer, inhaling as louis presses his mouth into the nape of harry’s neck. he has no proof, of course, but he's absolutely sure louis is smiling.

 

-

 

it seems like barely five minutes that harry was asleep when he's woken by louis getting out of bed. he squints around disorientedly, trying to make sense of what's going on, almost asking if it's morning yet and if it's time for class.

it's then that he finally recognizes the sound: the incessant knocking at the front door that has harry sitting upright and louis grappling for a pair of pyjama pants to slide on.

“you better have been joking about that stripper, _mon cher_ ,” harry mutters mutinously from his place on the bed. louis looks over to him and rolls his eyes.

“don’t be daft. i don’t know who the the fuck -”

“well go answer it, it’s raining and whoever it obviously  -”

“christ, hazza, yes, shut up,” louis snipes, and harry's jaw clicks as he closes his mouth. louis gropes around for a sweater and goes into the reception room, shutting the bedroom door behind as if to say, stay here and don't make a sound. harry's mouth twists into a grimace. he's caught between being pleased and annoyed.

he hears louis open the door, the splatter of early summer rain louder now, but not loud enough to drown out a terribly horrific sounding cry. harry sits up immediately, pulling his sleep shirt down around his pale thighs. he pulls drawers nearly out of their socket searching for louis' pants until he finds a pair of them folded neatly on top of the armor. he slides them on as he hurries out into the front room.

the door is wide open, rain curling around the edges of the white walls. louis is curled around a hunched over liam, who is clutching his stomach as if he's been wounded. those horrible sounds are coming from him. harry stands still, as if any movement would disturb this scene. he feels cold, rubbing his knees together.

“harry,” louis notices harry in the corner. “put the kettle on, please."

he sounds strained and authoritative. harry springs into action the moment louis says, please, like it was strangled from him. the air is stiff, chilled and silent. liam is still sobbing, a poisonous, wretched sound that echoes into harry's throbbing brain. his gut aches.

there’s earl grey in the top cupboard and harry sets out three clean cups and tea bags, waiting for the water to boil. this is not normal for them. he's never seen liam in a state like this: liam is solemn and pretentious and calm and good at being purposely oblivious - he does not cry.

this is not what they do when they're upset: louis wreaks havoc on himself and everyone around him; liam over exercises and goes through cocaine like it's icing sugar. zayn disappears, sometimes literally, sometimes figurative, niall parties, and hard - even harry's french friends aren't like this. gemma was never like this. harry's never seen such a display before.

"liam, up. stop this. get the fuck up, liam," louis says. harry can hear the note of worry in his voice, strained underneath the exasperation. louis finally heaves liam up by the armpits and misjudges his step, sending them both cascading into the wall. the sound makes harry flinch.

"for shit's sake, li," louis rubs his elbow, standing up. liam seems to sober a bit because when louis reaches out a hand, liam takes it, slowly rising to his feet. harry can't stop staring. louis pulls liam by the arm and sits him down in the same place harry was just hours ago, getting himself drunk on rose. he slumps down, rubbing his eyes, nose dripping snot onto his sleeve.

“he’s - he’s -,” liam tries to explain, though more than anything he just blubbers, pushing the butts of his hands into his eye sockets like he wants to burst them. he starts to dig his fingernails into his skin, leaving bright red indents as his breathing gets heavier - and louis pulls a chair up in between liam's legs, grabbing his hands and moving them away so he won't hurt himself. harry's not even sure liam realizes he's doing it. or if he feels any pain at all.

“liam. stop it. christ, liam. come on,” louis shushes him, wiping away the bloody indents in liam's forearms and making his skin a mess, his voice quiet and worried, soft like patience. like louis has comforted liam before and that this weird, complicated relationship these two have is more evolved and more intimate than louis' ever alluded to.

this doesn't surprise harry - louis is only as powerful as he is secretive. harry pours two mugs full of tea, steeping louis' bag out almost immediately and tossing it in the bin. harry doesn't drink any at all. he feels empty, like his bones are hollowed out, and incredibly lonely, like he’s watching this happen from outside of his body.

finally liam begins to explain, voice rough like gravel rock, "mr. malik has arranged for zayn and this girl to be engaged. he wants zayn to settle down early, think about his future - "

"that's absolutely insane. he's eighteen. what the hell is that man thinking?"

“i don't think we'd be in this situation if they were any sense to that man at all."

“zayn's not gonna marry that girl. christ, shut up and think for a second," louis says urgently, grabbing at liam's chin and focusing him still. they stare at each other for a moment, and harry has the distinct feeling they're still talking, even though there are no words.

“fuck, he's going to be married," liam curses, though now he sounds more reserved and solemn. horrible realization dawns on them both as they sit for a moment in silence.  then he lets out a dry, strangled sound that makes harry shiver. "fucking shit."

“li," louis says, holding him by the shoulders, “have a cigarette.”

liam lets out a wet chuckle, “you know i don’t smoke, lou.”

“right now you do. can't be fucked to find my lighter, so pass me the box of matches,” louis says matter-of-fact, propping his feet up on the table and lighting two in his mouth, passing one to liam.

“harry,” louis calls without turning around, and harry shuffles to stand behind where louis is sitting, feeling sleepy and worn out and sore. looking at liam right now is like looking at sadness, and harry can't keep up. louis fingers find his pulse and rubs the skin on the inside of his wrist for a moment, his head tipped back to look up at harry. "you look tired. let us adults talk and you go to sleep."

“oh, shut up, louis.” harry grumbles and louis smiles, big and bright and a little weathered around the edges.

“there’s a lad. i’m going to put our liam in the second bedroom. can you handle sharing your room with him?” louis means it to be patronizing but all harry hears is your room and his mind clicks to your room in my home, your place in my heart. all harry can do is nod and blink sleepily, pressing some lazy excuse for a kiss near louis’ left eyebrow before heading down the hall.

“he looks a bit thin, doesn’t he?” liam remarks, his voice scratchy.

“another problem, another day, li,” louis sounds tired and harry pretends he doesn’t hear them.

 

-

 

harry is in the middle of an old, easy rendition of claire de lune he found in one of louis' boxes of sheet music, when there's an eruption of chaos in the front room. he stops, listening for a second, unable to recognize the voices he hears. then there is yelling.

zayn's at the front door, but he's having no luck getting inside because louis is blocking his path, both of their voices on the verge of proper shouting. liam is an unmoving deer caught in the headlights, motionless by the sofa. he is fixated by zayn.

a moment later, harry sees why: in the light it becomes obvious that half of zayn’s face is completely purple. his left eye is bloodshot, like a blood vessel had burst, and his wrist hangs limply by his side in a sickly manner. the sight of it makes harry’s gut turn uneasily. it is a distinctly different feeling from hunger, but all the same, he feels hollowed out.

"you need to leave now, mate, so help me god," louis threatens, a tone of jovial mockery masking the real impatience he feels. zayn glares at louis, but he looks at him in a way that means he can't believe it's come to this. they're nearly nose to nose; louis doesn't relent. harry thinks zayn doesn't expect him to, so a moment later he steps back, switching tactics. he swerves around louis' outstretched arms in a movement to get closer to liam.

liam stands still, transfixed on the horror display of zayn's face.

“li, can we talk, please," zayn pleads, his voice breaking. he turns sharply away from louis, jaw clenching and eyes focused on the ceiling. "say something. anything. i had - i had to - "

“don't know if liam wants to hear this, man," louis says tersely, without emotion or empathy. zayn looks at him sharply for a moment, and nods, swallowing thickly

“louis,” is always liam says, firmly, and louis shrugs like he's not going to get through to zayn, not really. that's what love is like, harry knows this. nonsensical. thoughtless. harmful. being in love feels like eating glass and hoping you don't bleed all over someone else's mouth. harry doesn't move, feeling like a fly on the wall. louis comes to stand by the sink, forearms braced against the porcelain.

“you look like you've been sorted," liam says and it's meant to be nonchalant, but harry can tell it's anything but that from the way liam's hand shakes as it goes to reach for zayn as he approaches him. he almost reaches him before liam pulls back suddenly. harry can feel the burn of that hesitancy from here.

“i tried to make him explain why i don't want to get engaged. he - well," zayn laughs, bitterly, his eyes wet and unseeing as he gestures to his face. "well."

“shh,” liam soothes, pressing his hand against zayn’s untarnished cheek and zayn closes his eyes into the touch. louis lights a cigarette, blowing smoke into the window sill. harry doesn't dare move closer. he can feel the barriers around louis, knows not to look, or touch, or stand the wrong way.

liam takes zayn's limp wrist in his hand, fingers easily able to roll around the small bone. zayn hisses, face disfiguring around the bruises like some kind of story book fairytale gone horribly wrong.

“is it broken?” liam asks.

"i don't know - i don't care. liam," zayn says, trying to get liam to look at him without success. liam drops his wrist, turning away from zayn at the doorway, who looks like a far cry from the boy zayn pretended to be at school. he looks pathetic, and pleading, dignity crushed up underneath liam's shoes. "liam," he says again.

liam doesn't turn back to face him.

“louis - no - harry. can you please take zayn to the a&e?” liam walks swiftly up to harry. harry nods, though he's a shit driver and just got his qualifications last march. he almost suggests just calling a car, but this is the type of situation best dealt with privately, with no extra eyes and ears. liam hands him the keys to his range rover, and then disappears in the piano room. the doors are shut and the small curtains drawn a moment later.

harry disappears into the back bedroom, shifting through his bag for a pair of trousers and a beanie. he shoves as many of his haggard curls into his hat and goes out to meet zayn. louis hasn't moved from his spot by the kitchen sink.

“come on,” harry murmurs to zayn. his eyes are glazed over and his mouth is open and shit, this looks a lot like heartbreak. harry’s gut twists unpleasantly.

“jesus christ,” louis exclaims, curses thrown like spit into the sink. "never get a quiet night with you lot, do i."

 

-

 

zayn told him to drive out to a hospital in teddington. it's a while drive, and harry had been mostly nervous because he doesn't often drive, especially not near a convoluted zone like southwark.

harry wanted to ask why that specific hospital, because there are plenty in central, but he doesn't have to ask. he knows already: no one can know about this. zayn is anonymous enough in teddington, where he can give a fake name if he wants and no one knows his father.

zayn’s sitting on a cot in a room separated by curtains, no walls.  his wrist has been put in a splint by a woman named freya who asked him right away if he'd been drinking, which he promptly lied and said, yeah a bit, miss. sorry.

they told the nurse it was a fight in the park. got jumped for a pack of fags, zayn explains easily, probably shouldn't drink so much, should i.

his eyes wide and innocent and scared. it sounds rehearsed but the nurse doesn't say anything, just gets this pinched look in her face. harry sits quietly and doesn't say a thing. he plays with liam's keys and tries not to look up.

zayn’s face is worse in the fluorescents - blue fading into purple and a the bit around his eyes looks particularly nasty - cut up and already scabbing. zayn seems completely unaffected by his physical state. this strikes harry as very unsettling.

“is it stupid of me to even ask?” harry breaks the silence, and his voice gives away his insecurity. boys like zayn, harry knows - boys like zayn don't get asked questions about how they feel or what goes on: private is private is private, and everyone acts on a basis that they know everything when they don't actually know anything. the kind of families harry comes from knows one another and their dirty laundry as well, and it'd be beyond naive to think they don't talk between each other.

harry knows zayn has other friends, boys who go to eton, and he has a feeling this isn't the first time zayn's been accompanied to the a&e with someone. it's no big secret, according to louis, how mr. malik views appropriate discipline.

contrary to harry's name, though, he's been largely kept from this world, tucked away in nice like some pet for years before being allowed to go school in the uk. so he asks. he wants to know. boys like zayn don't get asked personal questions. this is precisely why harry asks.

"what happened? to you," he clears his throat, waiting. he doesn't know what the answer will be.

zayn looks over warily at harry. perhaps he’s thinking the same thing. “spilled the milk at dinner. said the wrong thing. doesn't really matter. it's always something."

"seems rather excessive. liam told me about your situation with that girl."

"makes sense, though. he can make do whatever he wants - what am i without his name? we've all been raised like dogs, groomed for whatever role we're supposed to fill," zayn wipes the back of his mouth, rolling his eyes.

“you sound like lou," harry whispers quietly. zayn’s face twists into something ugly, and the bruising makes him look utterly demented.

"what does louis know, about being controlled," zayn spits, "his dad bloody fucked off, didn't he?"

"suppose he did," harry agrees easily. "maybe you won't have to marry her. you've university now. 'got liam."

“liam?" zayn says his name like it's an acidic taste in his mouth, eyebrows raised. "liam is the problem. if i could have fucking listened, and stayed away, none of this - " zayn cuts off abruptly, swallowing thickly and looking swiftly up at the ceiling.

"everything has gone to shit. i'm supposed to be better at this," zayn mutters, hand hanging limply on the hospital podium he's sitting on.

better at lying, or keeping secrets, or being a better friend, person, or better at loving liam. better at what, harry will never know. zayn seemed to be good at everything, without even trying, when he was at school. harry could never approach the idea of someone like him, and now. now, he sees zayn completely different.

“maybe,” harry tries to muster a smile but then goes for reasonable. there's no smiling in matters such as this. “maybe it's all gone shit. but you'll fix it.”

zayn looks at harry for a moment, and they share a moment. the power between them has shifted, harry can feel it; he's no longer someone's plucky hanger-on, the last in a list of louis' conquests, at least not to zayn anymore. no longer someone unimportant, overlooked. now they share a secret. a hospital room without walls in teddington. a conversation harry can't imagine zayn having very often. probably not equals, but level footing. zayn will never deliberately disregard harry without thinking of this moment first.

so harry doesn’t blink.  he places his hand over zayn’s like they're friends, like they've been brothers all their lives, his longer fingers slowly unpeeling zayn's clenched fist back until it relaxes. zayn stares at their fingers for a second, but he doesn’t move. neither of them do.

 

-

 

harry wakes up to the smell of toast and mid summer dampness. sweat pools in the small of his back and his legs are twisted in the sheets; he's naked and has got morning wood, his stiffy pressing into the mattress as he twists around.

he contemplates having one off since louis is not around and leaving it there, a mess, for lou to find later; even the idea of  louis’ retaliation sends a shiver up his spine. instead he wills it into submission, gathering as much top sheet as he can and wrapping it around his shoulders like a sarong.

in the kitchen he starts the kettle right away, only to be interrupted by a rather surprised sputter from behind him.

liam’s sitting at the table with a copy of _the guardian_ in his hands and a rather strange look on his face. harry flushes.

"sorry, am i disrupting your breakfast?" harry demands waspishly, flicking loose curls out of his face so he can glare at liam properly.  when he doesn't answer, harry turns around and resumes making a hearty pot of breakfast tea.

“morning,” louis calls chirpily from the bathroom, newspaper folded in half and tucked under his elbow.

“liam’s either gone mute, or has a problem,” harry murmurs over the kettle. louis presses his nose into harry’s hair for a moment, inhaling. louis smells like french cologne, the kind of stuff harry would find in boutiques when he'd visit paris, and it makes him lean in closer for a better smell. he's such a wanker, walking around wearing bloody parisian perfume and holding the newspaper like he reads it. honestly ridiculous.

“he’s just confused as to why you’re starkers, dear,” louis shrugs over a bowl of bran and berries. liam watches between the two, eyebrows raised. he makes no comment.

“what -?” harry looks down at his fashionably draped sheet and then up again, unable to keep his eyes on one of them for more than few seconds. “honestly -”

“honestly,” louis supplies. “just isn’t used to your cheeky little bum, is all. 

“louis,” harry mutters. “are you meaning to say i have to wear clothes in the morning?”

louis looks like he’s about to laugh. harry finds nothing funny with the situation. he rounds on liam, hands on his hips.

“does this.” he gestures downwards. “bother you?”

liam looks nonplussed. “shouldn’t it?”

“louis doesn’t seem -”

“louis is your boyfriend -”

“hey!” louis interjects. “no using the ‘b’ word in my flat -”

“alright! christ, i’ll go put pants on,” harry stalks back to the bedroom, before rounding on liam and pointing a finger at him discriminately. “but you are disrupting my peaceful morning routine.”

“this is true, li,” louis agrees, all business over his yorkshire brew.

“'i'm sure harry can deal with having a guest in the house. perhaps learn to not walk around like he's someone's kept boy?”

“i think you're wrong in assuming that he isn't someone's kept boy, li," louis snickers, and harry near walks back into the kitchen to wring his neck.

 

-

 

louis has a class on mondays and wednesdays during the afternoon, and the flat becomes silent and a little barren, like louis himself fills up all the corners of harry's universe without him even noticing.

harry isn't a stranger to making himself busy when he's alone, he's in fact known nothing besides different shades of loneliness. he busied himself at the photographer's gallery this morning, then perused todd's until picking up organic eggs and kale at the whole foods in kensington. he did have plans to cycle down the river to embankment and look at the bookfair, but it's started to rain. summer's in london are so dreary compared to southern france.

instead, he decides to bother liam. he knocks on the guest room, where liam was having a kip, wondering if he left while harry was out.

he hasn’t. he looks pale and miserable and drawn, his hair slightly grown out than usual, messy and all over the place. it's unusual for liam, who either has his hair trimmed extremely short or gelled into submission. he looks rather human.

“i’ve found louis’ secret stash of hugh grant movies. want to give it a go?”

“hugh grant? i thought he liked ryan gosling -”

“oh, he does, but he ditched those when i refused to stop taking the piss.”

liam grins but it doesn’t exactly look genuine to harry. “alright. yeah.”

they don't sit for movies. instead they do what any reasonable young lads would do, and go out for a drink. the rain has abided to nothing but a light mist, barely there, and liam combs his hair back and puts on a dark blazer over his chinos and it's like he was never out of place to begin with. harry can barely tame his curls on a non-humid day. they sit on the rooftop garden of the founder’s arms and drink large pitchers of pimms with a jubilee of fruit and light coloured honey ales.

it's just jovial, guarded talk and conversation until liam looks out into the city, the peaking of the thames just in view. it is a really nice summer day, harry thinks. smells like recklessness is awaiting him, somewhere. like he's free to self destruct if he wanted.

"this time two summers ago i was in australia with zayn. i was doing this extracurricular summer camp course to buff my cv, and he was there for some lads holiday," liam explains without prompt. he shrugs like he's shaking something off, a feeling. "weird how time changes everything."

“have you talked to him? since...whenever. the other night," harry broaches, because it seems safe. when louis mentions tidbits like this, which is next to never, it's always best to accept it and move on without comment. liam is different from louis, though. perhaps he's telling harry for a reason. perhaps he just wants someone to listen.

"no," liam's voice sounds rough for a second, but it is not unkind. "no," he amends again, softer. "i haven't spoken with him. it's better this way. zayn fucks up a lot. he does shit like this all the time. i can't."

”that's shit," harry acquises, unsure what to say. he doesn't want to overstep boundaries by telling liam what happened in that a&e. he figures liam has heard all the stories, taken all the excuses, kept quiet. he's sure liam has seen his fair share of a&e's in random parts of west london. his head seems to ache a little more as the sun creeps along into setting. "that's fucking shit." he says again.

liam nods, but remains silent. harry settles into the quiet like it was his home.

 

-

 

that evening, when louis finally arrives home, he smells like someone else. harry says nothing, and watches him round up liam and take him out to get even more drunk.

harry is startled awake in the middle of the night to hear them come in. he lies carefully still, not trying to make a sound, or a shadow. liam is blathering, but too quietly for harry to decipher; he sounds upset. a moment later louis tries to calm liam down in the next room. he listens for a while, ignoring his stomachache, and thinks, this is what heartbreak must sound like. this is what it must be to truly love someone.

he’ll never forget the way liam sounds as he whispers the fear of fears, only confessed when he's absolutely sloshed: "what if he doesn't come back?"

louis doesn’t return back to bed and harry shivers despite the warm air. in the morning, liam has packed his things and calls a car before harry even gets to see him off. this is not uncommon. now that zayn has been properly dealt with; liam will go on to travel to spain or greece and drink, smoke, snort his grief away. louis makes harry a breakfast he doesn't eat, they bicker, fuck on the counter. nothing changes.

 

-

 

“wake up, kitten," louis presses his nose into harry’s curls. he smells like sleep and summer. harry blinks, slithering around until he's facing louis. he looks at him, really drink him in. the sun hits his face and it makes his freckles stand out against his tanned cheekbones.

louis is haughty and proud and sometimes, harry can see that he is vulnerable in the right light. he’s beautiful and cocky and fuck, he’s a born goddamn heart-breaker. and harry is so in love his hands shake as they reach up to cup louis’ face.

"i refuse to get out of this bed for anything less than ten thousand pounds and a spanish holiday," harry drawls lethargically.

louis laughs distantly, slithering out of bed and taking a pristine white top out of a la garconne bag. he slips it on, his skin a beautiful gold against his shirt. "ten thousand? ‘sound like a cheap rent boy, haz. at least fifty."

louis is glitter and shine and grit, rough and hard and he slips through harry’s hands like smoke. harry reaches up, presses his mouth against the edge of louis' hip, kissing through the fabric.

"that's my nice shirt, don't go ruining it," louis chastises, but he runs his fingers through harry's bedhead, pulling his head back until all harry can do is peer up at him. louis stares at him for a moment, studying him, studying his mouth. "got a cock sucking mouth, you know that?"

“fuck you," harry laughs, trying to push against louis. louis doesn't relent, instead pulling him closer and biting against his bottom lip. harry lets himself be consumed in the kiss, mewling in the way he knows louis' likes.

louis pulls back, licking the spit shine off his lips and pushing his fringe out of his face. "look at you, now.”

“lou," harry croaks, legs tangled in the sheets underneath him, "don't make me beg."

harry smiles up at him, half-joking, half-serious. he's hard and a little wet and he doesn't want louis to make this a power play. he just wants to fuck and touch and be held. he can't ask that, though. there's always a way with lou. always a way to get what you want with him.

"who said anything about begging?" louis manoeuvres, eyes twinkling with something akin to mischief. "not me. i'm giving it to you right now, aren't i?"

harry blinks slowly, looking up through his lashes when he reopens them. "okay then. give it to me. i dare you to give it to me."

louis’ laughter is like a firecracker, unexpected and loud in harry’s ear. he puts a hand on harry's chest and pushes him down against the duvet, hands coming to straighten out his legs against the mattress. he crawls up over harry, looking down and smiling. it's a rare smile harry doesn't get to see often - sincere and lovely. harry reaches up to try to kiss away the glimmer on louis’ neck but he can’t reach. louis laughs. “don't be so eager, darling."

that's the thing, though. harry's always eager.

 

-

 

and later. later, harry makes tea, and louis bends him over the kitchen counter, fucks him right then and there and harry closes his eyes against the marble counter, pressing his cheek into the surface until it feels bruised. it's like a blanket being pulled over his head, or sinking into the pool for the first time of at the beginning of summer - like being consumed. like being suffocated. it's like every inhale is smoke, water, toxic air;

and every exhale is louis.

 

-

 

august blooms magnificently. louis skips class and they take the day to gallivant around brick lane, acting like real hipsters down in shoreditch for an art opening. they rub elbows with old st. peter's alum in knightsbridge most weekends. harry begs them to take a holiday to france, but louis shuts him down every time. the weather is beautiful, the buildings are tall, the people speak english, louis says. there is no reason to leave just yet.

there are nights when louis does not come home until very late. sometimes harry sits at the kitchen window, fingertips pressing against the cold window sill.

he knows not to be paranoid, not to be needy, but it's hard: it's like louis purposely withdraws himself just to keep things interesting. harry doesn't know how not to be annoying, clingy, wanting, always, wanting. he tries to hide it, tries not to annoy louis, not to drive him away so that he's out all night with his university friends, drinking and doing lines until the sun has nearly come up. but sometimes louis needs no push to go off the rails, sometimes it's just an occurrence of the universe, a happening that neither of them can control.

like tonight, tonight is a good example: it's august and louis comes home drunk. it's six in the evening, hot, he's a little sweaty and he smells like cocoa butter and cologne. harry kisses him in greeting, frowning when louis doesn't return it, pushing him away in favor of the kitchen, feels the evening take a nosedive just like that. he feels his gut react, churning with the glimmerings of anxiety.

“hey," harry bridges, pushing his hair out of his face. "where were you? lou?"

louis turns to him, eyes hard and glazed over. he looks at harry like he's an unfortunate piece of rubbish underneath his shoe. "what's it matter where i was, haz?"

“dunno. can't i know? some big secret?" harry guesses dryly, crossing his arms. louis rolls his eyes, sliding off his blazer onto the kitchen table. harry waits for a moment, feeling the kindling of anger start to ignite inside of him. his jaw is tense, and he can feel the hot white taste on his teeth, this pent up frustration. finally he spits: "you going to be like that, then?"

louis doesn't even spare him a glance, "yeah, whatever the fuck that means. i'm going to be like that. jesus, harry, you're so fucking sensitive to everything i fucking do. i didn't put the sun in the fucking sky, please stop acting like i did."

“i - i don't even act like that. stop being a prick," harry exclaims, face scrunching. louis grabs up one of his bottles of whiskey sitting on the back counter, taking a swig of it and wiping the back of his mouth. he makes a move to get around harry with the canter, and and harry blocks his access, trying his best to stare him down.

"you don't need anything more to drink," he says, because louis is well sloshed, and he is getting meaner by the moment, and he does not need to go a self-destructive rampage tonight. harry makes a grab for it but louis keeps it out of his reach, his sloppy movement betraying just how intoxicated he is.

"louis, for fucks sake. stop this. give me that, and go to bed. i swear to god," harry demands. he wants to hurt something. he wants to hit louis. instead he grabs the counter, clutching the ledge. louis takes another drink like this is all a joke to him. like everything is a joke to him.

"sorry, didn't realise you owned this flat and you were in charge of me now," louis laughs cruelly. "you are such a child. a stupid, naive, child."

harry doesn't rise to take the bait. “louis. honestly. just stop.”

but louis stands his ground. “no, babe, you stop. stop telling me what to do, and following around like some kicked puppy, and generally bothering me with your fucking mundane presence. fuck, do you know how actually boring you are?  how much i actually put up with for you?”

it feels like louis is making paper snowflakes out of harry's organs. something clenches in his chest, and he turns away for a moment, swallowing. finally he takes a breath, hating the way it shakes. "if you think these fucking things, then why are you even with me?"

“i've been asking myself that for a year now," louis murmurs openly, shrugging like it doesn't matter. "it's probably best if you don't stay here tonight."

harry backs up off the counter, rubbing a hand over his mouth. he can't. he can't look at louis right now, not with the state of his face. he knows he looks blotchy and red and ugly and he can't - he can't deal with this. louis is right. he probably shouldn't stay here.

“alright, then," harry says solemnly, nodding. louis drinks again, and harry wants to look at him, try to find who the hell this person is and get rid of him - because this isn't louis. this isn't louis, harry tries to tell himself. this isn't like him. he takes a deep breath, grinding his teeth down together. "i'll leave."

“excellent,” louis claps, "i'm thinking of having a few friends over anyway."

harry whips around to look at him, before surging up and grabbing the decanter out of louis' hand. it wasn't that full to beginning with, and it certainly isn't now, but no matter; the sound of the shatter as it hits the floors is satisfying. he takes the wine glasses on the counter and smashes those too, wiping his forearm of any glass. harry looks up, around, like he's been running, then surveys all the damage at louis' feet. he realises he's breathing in hard, laboured, breaths.

louis stares at him, awaiting, his face blank. his facade is back in place, like he's never met harry, like there's nothing between them. how quickly, harry thinks, wiping his face like the fucking idiot he is, that the tables are turned against him. the silence settles between them like a thick blanket of heat, pressing in on harry's lungs.

" _casse-toi_ ," harry mutters, closing his eyes suddenly and walking back to bedroom to get his clothes. he shuffles them in his bag, hoisting it out before glaring at louis one last time. "i fucking hate you."

“no, you don’t,” louis interrupts, his eyes cold and bright blue, "that's the whole problem. you're in love with me. well, look where that's gotten us, harry."

harry’s spine is erect and brittle like it might crack in half if he moves. after a moment, he gulps down as much air as he can and pushes past louis, grabbing his wallet and his phone.

harry lets the front door slam on his way out and it isn’t until he gets to the corner that he crumbles onto a red bus stop bench, tucking his head between his knees. he can feel an older lady looking him like he's gone mad, but he can't bring himself to care. he can’t seem to breathe, and a dry sob catches in his throat. he tries to suppress it, but it doesn't work. he feels like he's dying. his whole chest aches.

harry clenches his fists and lets go.

 

-

 

he books a room at the corinthia because it's close to embankment and he's not sure where he is otherwise. he draws himself a large bath, orders room service he doesn't eat, and sits in the tub smoking cigarettes. his eyes are too itchy to keep open, and so he closes them against the porcelain.

he takes a long while avoiding crawling into bed. that makes the fight final, harry sleeping somewhere else.

when he calls his sister, who he believes is still in greece, all he gets is her voicemail.

 

-

 

he knows he shouldn't go back, but he can't. he wakes up in a blind panic two hours later, curled up on the armchair near a window overlooking the city. louis' city. he paces, heart racing, wiping his eyes of sleep as he throws his clothes back on - he can't be here, not when louis and him had that row, because it can't end like this.

 _fuck_ , harry thinks, dread dawning on him. he shuffles into his tennies as fast as he can, forgoing socks. it can't be over. it can't be fucking over.

he calls a cab and is standing in the lobby, curls tucked into a beanie. he feels nervous, and when he reaches up to cup his mouth, his hand is shaking.

he realises once he's told the driver the address that this was completely idiotic, stupid, and humiliating: of course louis won't be waiting for him. louis said he was going to have his friends over, and party, and forget all about harry because harry isn't important. harry clutches his fingers in his mouth, biting down hard. harry isn't important.

he doesn't tell the driver to stop, though. he can't find his voice.

it's not over. it's not.

 

-

 

the kitchen is in a right state. the front door wasn't even properly closed. harry checks his watch; it's nearly five in the morning. he wipes at the sore skin underneath his eyes.

he finds louis lying in his pants and shirt in a half-filled tub of water diluted with confetti, remnants of a party all around him, and he doesn't look like his breathing. he doesn't look like he's breathing, and harry drops his bag on the floor, nearly skidding against the tile as he hoists him out of the tub, water splashing everywhere. his chest doesn't look like it's moving, and he's not responding.

don't be dead, harry thinks hopelessly, trying to remember what the procedure was for a drunk person and fumbling spectacularly. his hands are useless. he should cut them off. don't be dead. don't be dead. don't be dead, lou. don't.

he pulls louis onto his back because he can't remember what he's fucking supposed to do, and shakes louis a little by the shoulders, his shirt sticking to his skin. he's covered in paint and glitter. he's not moving.

he presses his hand against louis’ face and slaps him, hard. nothing. so harry presses his palms on louis’ chest like they do in silly movies and starts to press and release and then thinks, he’s dead, he’s dead, he’s fucking dead, you're trying to save a dead person -

and then. “stop. that hurts.”

louis’ eyes flutter open and and he rolls to his side to puke onto the bath mat. harry doesn’t know if he can speak, so he sits back on his knees as louis coughs, face wet and pale, his hair slicked to his forehead.

“fuck, what's happening," louis groans, wiping his mouth and frowning at the now ruined state of the rug, "harry."

harry helps him to his feet. he stinks of patron and rum and other people, other mouths, and harry helps him as he stumbles into his bedroom, taking off his shirt and his trousers in one go. harry ushers him into his bed, where he folds into the duvet like a small, feeble pet. louis looks up at harry with his round blue eyes, wrist dangling off the end of the bed, hand outstretched.

harry cannot say a word. he feels like he might be sick. he wants to tear the hair out of his head.  he makes a move to leave, to call a cleaning service for the next availability and make his way through some of the mess himself. he's nearly to the edge of the room before louis' voice stops him.

“haz, where are you going?" louis' voice is rough like sandpaper and he looks small surrounded by a cloud of white goose feather pillows. "come here."

harry refuses, shakes his head. “no.”

“please, stay,” louis mumbles, breathing wetly and closing his eyes for a moment. he reopens them, looking like he expected harry to leave.

harry sits gingerly back down on the edge of the bed, unable to unclench his muscles as keeps as still as he can. louis reaches for his hand, holding it, playing with it, even though harry doesn't reciprocate. it probably looks from another perspective that the tables have turned, that harry is granting forgiveness and not begging for it this time, that louis is coming to him with a white flag: this is not so. harry knows better. louis has all the power, the upper hand, the hold on harry.

harry is merely an orbit, unable to sway out of his pattern. he can't leave. he's rooted to this very bed, this very room, this very flat, this very moment. to this boy. he can't leave. all his bones would stay behind as his skin tried to escape. every floorboard would crack beneath his feet until he was unable to proceed any further. he would crawl back. he would always crawl back.

he’s fallen hard. if harry could be honest with himself, he fell for louis the first night he met him, in the woods behind the barn in surrey. he knows that its obvious to louis how smitten, how utterly helpless he is, he knows it's obvious to louis' friends, to his university friends, to everyone in their network - if it weren't for his name, he'd be nothing more than some kept boy. harry's not a fucking fool. he's a prisoner to his heart.

he knows they laugh at him, talk about him in mentioning behind their stirred drinks on someone's settee somewhere in mayfair. he knows that as the young, clueless, french boy, he doesn't fit in with the rest of these british blue bloods, no matter his family or his crest or his name. in the end, it doesn't even matter.

when he looks over, louis has fallen asleep clutching harry's first two fingers. harry sits there, back sore from sitting up for so long. he doesn't leave. he doesn't move. he wants to ask, why the fuck do you put me through this. he wants to ask, why the fuck are we together.

harry won't utter a word. the silence is heavy and thick like a quilted blanket, hiding them away from the rest of the world until all that is left is this moment. there is no sound except for louis’ heart beating underneath harry’s palm, steady and slow. it's more comforting than anything else harry ever hears, and he knows he is so, so, fucked.

 

-

 

louis sleeps well into the evening. he sleeps through harry passing out for two hours at the foot of the bed, only to wake himself back up again, blinking blearily. he sleeps through harry flushing most of the cocaine, and some other type of substance he won't even try to decipher. he sleeps through the three maids that arrive at half nine to tidy and cart away most of the mess. he sleeps through harry taking a shower and letting the water hit his face until he can't feel anything anymore.

he can hear when louis wakes up at quarter seven, chugging two lucozades and swallowing the paracetamol harry left for him. he doesn't go into the bedroom, instead staying curled up underneath one of throw blankets in the living room. harry knows he hasn't slept more than a couple hours in the last day and half; he feels like it.

louis doesn't come out into the kitchen. harry hears the shower start, and then the door closed. everything feels stilted and claustrophobic. he should leave. he should recheck into the corinthia and figure out a flight back to nice. he can still salvage the summer. he can still salvage some bits of himself from this wreckage.

harry doesn't get a chance for a clean escape, because that would be too easy. louis patters into the kitchen, hair damp, skin clean and unfairly pearlescent looking. they stare at each other for a long time. harry wants to break more wine glasses. he wants to shout. he wants to demand apologies. he is so tired.

instead he sits up slowly, coming to stand by the basin. louis takes a deep breath, stripped down, hesitant: him yesterday and him today could very well be two different people. harry doesn’t say anything, just watches, waiting. finally, he says, “look, harry – “

“it’ll be easier if i just get the rest of my things now,” harry interrupts. he doesn’t want to prolong the hurt, because this morning has finalised what is left between them, what cannot be saved. louis looks away from him, his silence like salt on harry’s wound. he is proud his voice is steady. he doesn’t care anymore: gone goes the cartier ring louis bought him when he turned seventeen. gone go the memories harry keeps in the bottom drawer of his dorm room. gone goes the text messages, the playlists, the clothes louis would pick out for him when they’d go shopping.

louis takes a step, reaches his arm out, before it falls back limply to his side. he halts, lanky in worn down plaid pajamas and one of his alumni jumpers. he looks painfully, unavoidably, human.

“i don’t – don’t let this end between us,” louis says it so quietly harry could pretend not to hear him if he wanted.

“ _you_ ended it. you threw me out. you told me you _hated_ me,” harry shakes his head, his brow furrowing. “you did.”

“that’s just drunk banter, though. i didn’t –“ louis starts but harry shakes his head again.

“don’t say you didn’t mean it. what’s the saying again? a drunk mouth is an honest heart, right?” harry’s laugh is bitter and foreign to his ears.

“listen, haz,” louis steers himself, jaw clenching, “i didn’t mean it. stop taking it so to heart. you know i do.”

“no,” harry shrugs, feeling the sting of hysteric rising in his throat, “i don’t know. i don’t know because you’ve never said it. i could be anyone to you. you were right, i do love you – i am in love with you, and you can’t lie – i know you do too. you must. otherwise it wouldn’t have gotten this far – you wouldn’t have ruined it to save yourself.”

“it’s not ruined,” louis argues, shaking his head, “nothing is ruined. stop talking nonsense.”

harry takes a deep breath, “you say these things because people won’t stand up to you, but this is me. you can’t talk to me like that. you can’t just fucking treat me like anyone else – that’s not who we are. at least, that’s not who i thought we were.”

“i know you’re not like anyone else,” louis says quietly, “i know that more than anything. it scares me. i don’t know what to do with you sometimes. i fuck up, okay, and i’m fucking sorry, but you’re just going to have to understand that is who i am.”

“that’s who you are,” harry repeats coldly. he knows he’s crying but it’s too far past the point of being embarrassed about it now. “that’s who you are. you’re a prick to me, or you ignore me, or you fuck around with other people, or you throw me out, and i should just deal with it, because that’s who you are. god, louis, fuck you. you are such a fucking dick.”

“i can’t change,” louis says finally, shrugging defiantly. he looks wrecked, tired and clumsy, but nowhere near the state that harry knows he’s in. everything is so fucking unfair. “i’m sorry. i can’t change.”

harry shrugs too, helpless, mirroring louis. “i know,” he chokes, shaking his head stupidly, “i know you can’t, and i hate myself that i still want you. i’ll probably want you even if you don’t want me,” he wipes his face, feeling a surge of anger strike him in the heart. “god, fucking – “

harry knocks a tea cup off the counter, shattering it on the ground, just to hear it break. broken china stays on the floor between them, a piece of the handle right near louis’ socked feet. neither of them blink. chaos and drug fueled arguments and screaming matches they know well. this slow suffocation doesn’t suit them. it feels like breaking. harry’s body aches.

“hey,” louis says, hand coming grab at harry’s elbow. his grip is impossibly gentle, like he’s afraid harry might crumble, or fade away. harry removes his hand from his eyes were he was rubbing them. “hey, stop. come on, haz. please.”

harry knows that about the only apology he’s going to get for this shit. louis smells familiar, feels like a body he’d call home, soft and strong and comfortable, every bone fitting in between harry’s like puzzle pieces. he presses his forehead into louis’ neck, getting tear streaks all over his jumper and not caring. louis makes a grab for his other hand, and harry lets him intertwined their fingers together, bringing it up to rest against louis’ breastbone.

“i’m sorry,” harry whispers, stupidly, uselessly. he feels young and reckless and in love.

the only thing he hears in return is louis’ heartbeat, a sure, steady, hum buried deep within his chest.

 

-

 

harry knows that underneath louis’ shiny armour, underneath the glitter, the gold and his beautiful skin, there are kinks and there are parts of louis that are broken. harry knows that until recently he has shied away from the horrid parts of louis, the decayed, the void, the apathetic pieces he’s able to keep so well hidden. he is good looking and affluent and gifted and he knows it; he is an enigma, he never wants to be held down. he never wants to be held at all.

everything about louis is addicting: his words fall into harry’s mouth, his tone of voice is elicit, polite, ridiculous, destructive. he has good taste, likes rose gold and nice shoes, italian leather; his guilty pleasures are cartier and weekend trips to the mediterranean and harry. he has skin like the sun. he never talks to anyone, but he speaks all the time: in riddles, rhythms and rhymes, daring anyone to try and figure him out.

harry is tired. he’s so sick of searching, seeking, reaching for louis. louis is radiant and hot like a star in his hands; he is fire and smoke filing harry’s lungs. he is alluring, always dancing just out of touch. it’s never the right amount of give and take. there are always going to be secrets, fights, harry losing, begging, crawling back. he could never not love this boy, now. he could never give up, not now.

not when they’ve come this far.

 

-

 

it’s a slow, stuttering few weeks following. usually their fights are long and forgotten the second they’re over, but not this one. this lingers, like a stain on harry’s hands. sometimes he falls asleep on the couch in the living room watching graham norton while louis is out and when he wakes up in the morning he’s still there, louis asleep in the bedroom. there’s a quietness between them. harry is not foolish enough to call it a truce.

louis walks in on harry tinkering around on the piano because it’s hard to stand the silence when louis’ at class. he’s wearing his apron, something harry hasn’t seen since the beginning of summer.

“i’ve made chicken kiev, if you want,” louis says. harry shrugs, he’s not hungry. the pain in his lower abdomen has been steadily growing worse, but he doesn’t want to say anything – doesn’t want to rock the boat anymore than it’s already been. harry doesn’t want to create any more drama by telling louis.

“what are you playing, kitten?” louis murmurs, coming to sit next to harry on the bench.

“well,” harry stutters, not actually expecting him to ask, “i was looking through your boxes for more sheet music, and i found some of your dad’s old songs. so i decided to convert some of them to pieces i could play.”

he knew it was risky. louis’ father was a subject no one ever touched. they all knew about him anyway – it was hard not to know about pat tomlinson, and his death was over four years ago. you couldn’t pick up a paper and not see his face on the front. rockstars die young. people should know this.

louis has a complicated look on his face, chewing on his lower lip. his shoulders are slumped in when he finally says, “i was sixteen when he died. just starting year eleven at st. peter’s.”

harry doesn’t speak, just presses his hip into louis’ as they sit side by side.

“the thing that’s fucked up about my dad isn’t that he wasn’t around, or like a bit of drink, or cheated on my mum or whatever. it was that my whole life people kept telling me who he was or how he was. i felt like i knew him but you never actually know. he was good at being several different guys,” louis voice takes on a tone harry’s never heard before. “when he knew he was dying, he came home. told me. still smoked all through treatment, but. fuck it. he was a good fucking dad, you know? and losing him, that wasn’t right. i shouldn’t have. i barely knew him. he barely knew me.”

louis looks up at harry and tries to smile but it falls through. harry starts to play one of pat tomlinson’s song, an softer song that came out when louis must have been six or seven. louis has a faraway look in his eyes, unseeing as he echoes one of his father’s lyrics, singing, “love is watching someone die.”

and harry finishes the lyric, as softly as he can, so he doesn’t wake louis out of his memory. “so who’s going to watch you die?”

 

-

 

harry wakes up earlier some mornings, when there is still fog out and watches louis sleep. his stomach hurts and he sometimes he idly wonders if this is the day louis will get sick of him and harry will have to fly back to france and it’ll all be finally, finally over.  it feels like he’s constantly teetering on an edge.

or rather, maybe he’s already falling, expecting to crash and burn or land on his feet but he just keeps falling, keeps falling. louis presses in closer to harry in his sleep, curled around him like a cat. harry smells him, smoke and shampoo and something feral, a smell harry can’t exactly put his finger on. maybe it’s someone else. it is bitter and smells like spice.

 

-

 

it’s nearly september, and school starts soon for the both of them. so louis does what he does best and throws a party.

mostly, they’re university students that harry has never met, let alone heard of. in true louis fashion, people don’t start showing up until midnight at the earliest, and by the time one rolls around, the apartment and patio and front steps is so crowded harry has to squeeze past chests and bums and bodies to get from one place to another.

there’s no school kids from st. peters. harry, unsurprisingly, feels out of place.

it’s interesting to harry that none of louis’ best mates from st peter’s are here. when he was was attending while the rest of them were, they were the type of boys who walked around thinking they could part the red sea. harry could see it even from afar: together they believed they were invincible.

the golden boys. liam was a northern boy with an international chain of hotels waiting for him once he’s ready to take over  – a real english boy with real english manners, face so refined and good natured it looked like it should have been splashed up on a ralph lauren campaign. niall was similar, harry thinks, the son of a long line of brewery owners from ireland who had gone global during the twentieth century. zayn stood out the most; a young rich british pakistani, the heir to an multinational hedge fund, with more money than god.

and then there was louis, the ringleader, the boy whose face had been in tabloids and music videos before he had even turned five. new money, so absolutely obvious to the rest of them. louis and his family elbowed their way into this bourgeois circle, decidedly staying after having their taste of the silver spoon. louis, with his sax, his cigarettes, the self-entitled arrogance of his smile.

mischievous. dangerous. _don’t touch, he’ll burn. don’t look, he shines too bright_.

they were idolized in school until idolization became an old fad and everything turned to faded, fucked up indifference. louis doesn’t talk much about his boys – hasn’t said so much as a word all summer about them. harry doesn’t pretend to try to make any sense of louis’ brain at all.

tonight, the music is loud and harry is rolling on molly, his nose burning from the line louis nearly fed him as people started to stumble in. he can’t help but follow louis around the room with his eyes, because it is fascinating and strange to see louis so in his element. center of attention, drunk and affectionate, laughter louder above all others. harry is fixated.

it’s been so long since he’s had to resist touching, had to keep his mouth to himself and only enjoy the sight of the bruise he sucked into louis’ collarbone the night before from afar, peeking underneath the line of louis’ white t shirt. he imagines tracing it with his teeth over and over again. the restraint makes his blood rush in his ears. his hands are hot and agitated.

everything is bright, and the house music skips along to his heartbeat as he stands and walks around, say hi and hello to anyone who waves, fingers on his neck and the insides of his wrists, taunting him. he could be distracted for a moment like louis always is, always chasing tail when harry’s not looking. every word sounds distorted and far way and sweat trickles between harry’s shoulder blades, underneath his hairline. he wants an ice bath, he wants to be set on fire.

it’s like the earth is spinning languidly and someone is passing around another joint while people shake and laugh and dance and throw their hands up into the air. harry can hardly see and can barely hear except for his heart. all he wants is louis.

“aren’t you a sweet thing,” a girl sidles up to him, with long brown hair and nice brown eyes and a taut bum and she could be anyone. harry tries to smile but he suddenly feels a lot more fucked than he thought.

he doesn’t know what direction her voice came from but he takes his best guess and pushes past more hoards of sun-kissed shoulders and sweat slicked hair and bodies that flung around smelling like freedom. the apartment reeks of smoke and desperation and harry’s fingers pull onto the inside of louis’ elbow, his grin devious and free and louis looks at him like he’s never quite seen harry before. louis likes harry best when harry is not himself.

harry is elated and reckless and so incredibly fucked.  he takes louis into the piano room and pushes louis harshly enough that his head thwacks against the wall behind him.

louis’ lips have parted in a gasp. harry can’t look away.

“always gotta be in the center of everyone’s attention, lou,”  harry whispers, teeth along louis’ neck, eliciting a shiver. he grips louis’ biceps, holding him in place when he finally presses their lips together. louis has sweat on his upper lip and he tastes like rum but his mouth is smooth, dry, soft. he’s letting harry lead, and harry doesn’t know why.

“all i want is everything,” louis whispers as a way of explanation, and it feels like a moment. harry ghosts his fingers over louis’ crotch, once, twice, until he presses harder down this time, eliciting a moan and louis bares his neck for harry to take and possess and harry can’t help but maim, can’t but take what he wants because he always is the one who gives -

harry slides him out of his trousers, pushing them down to his knees and his fingers slide down louis’ flat, tanned abdomen with the slightest touch. he stares for a moment, at louis’ hipbones, the neat, near perfect curve of his thighs, the golden hair peeking out of the lip of his boxers. he is on another level from everything else harry has ever known. his skin is impossibly warm.

harry does what he knows best when he wants louis’ attention: he drops to his knees and takes louis in his mouth without any discourse or teasing. he thinks back to year eleven, when louis was a bright, young thing with narrow shoulders and lanky legs, and harry had been excited and unsure and pure virgin, the last little lisp of his french accent slipping away by the time he turned sixteen. louis has taught him everything he’s ever known, in languages he never knew existed.

“christ, your mouth,” louis gasps, fingers grappling and pressing into his skull, tugging on his curls slightly. harry licks his way up the shaft, his thumbs tracing patterns on a faded bruise on louis’ hipbone, the air around them is tantalizing. heavy.

the music switches rhythms and it’s like harry is feeling every single moment in slow motion. with a twitch and a moan louis comes and harry takes it, because that’s what he knows. he sits back on his heels as louis’ tucks himself back in, smoothing his hair back away from his forehead. harry feels like he’s just tried to prove something but didn’t quite succeed.

he’s not rolling hard enough. he needs another line, or he’ll parachute it easy if it’s not crushed up the way he likes. louis grabs him by the arm, picking him up, hand through his curls. his fingers are so gentle it’s as if he isn’t there at all.

“you’re a little devil,” louis smiles, thumb brushing against harry’s cheek bone, and he spins harry round, pushing the small of his back into the side of his baby grand. harry blushes, feeling his dick pressing against his fly, but he pushes louis away, shaking his head so his hair flies around him.

“what, you too good for me now?” louis demands cheekily, flushed and pretty, little wings of pink tinging his cheekbones. harry thinks he looks like a child who knows he’s adorable.

“it’s not about that,” harry laughs, giddy and high off the secret moment that just occurred between them. “i just want you to remember when you’re surrounded by all your friends.”

“remember what?” louis crowds harry by putting a knee between his legs, nosing his jaw line. harry wants to give in, make louis bend him over the piano and fuck him, but he doesn’t. he wants to prove himself.

“that i belong to you,” harry’s laugh is hoarse and weak as he presses to the love bite on louis’ neck, then trails down to finger the brand new, shiny pink mark on his collarbone, then cups the one of his hip. “and you belong to me.”

louis groans, but his voice is colored with drunk delight. “i could never forget.”

harry knows this isn’t true. sometimes louis purposely forgets and tries to put harry as far out of his mind as possible. but this isn’t about that now.

“i know you won’t,” he says quietly, smiling with just the edges of his mouth. louis tips harry’s head back, thumbs just underneath his jaw as he kisses him, chasing the taste of come out of harry’s mouth.

“haven’t i ever told you all the things i like about you, styles?” louis murmurs slyly, and harry nearly giggles, feeling hopeful about the mood that louis is in. he shakes his head as much he can with his jaw still in louis’ grip.

“i don’t think so, no.”

“haven’t i? well, i like your mouth, for one,”  louis looks at him for a moment, pressing his fingers to harry’s bottom lip, pulling it down to show his teeth. “and your curls,” louis says, kissing harry’s forehead, then his hairline. “your long eyelashes,” he whispers, kissing harry’s eyelids, “i like your long legs. and your long fingers.”

harry nods, feeling suddenly sleepy and embarrassed. louis tuts, tipping his head up until they’re looking each other in the eyes. louis looks tender and quiet, despite the party raging outside. “those eyes, though. they have to be my favourite. those bedroom eyes you look at me with, harry.”

harry’s heart is beating so loud he’s surprised he isn’t dying. the air is profound with intimacy that is never spoken between them. they exist in a room that no one else knows and no one else can breach. they exist outside the normal parallel. day to day mediocre does not exist for them. they travel along in their own, never to be disrupted. the flat could erupt in flames. the gods could come down upon them at this very moment. harry wouldn’t know. it’s so quiet between them he could hear a pin drop.

“you know i love you,” his voice is vulnerable and so full of adoration and weakness it makes him want to puke. louis palms his cheek and harry sinks into it, unable to stop smiling. “i’ll give you everything. anything. i’ll give you all of me.”

louis whispers, “you’ve got stars in your eyes.” 

and harry has no idea what the fuck that means but they stand against the wall with their mouths pressed up against each other in chaste kisses and harry wonders, unable to stand upright, drunk with love and high to the heavens, ears bleeding from a bass and dick still half-hard, if this is what falling in love is like.

the world spins around them, spinning out into the universe, spinning into nothingness, but the air between them is still.

 

-

 

the last morning of harry’s summer in london is filled to the brim with a bright eagerness. harry wakes up earlier than usual with louis’ fingers curled in his hair, not tugging, just a reminder. he shifts, whimpering unintentionally, and he can feel louis’ smile pressed into his skin.

this moment feels so sweet, so tangible. the smell outside. the bustle of early london. the light shining in from louis’ balcony window, the white walls of his room impossibly blinding. this moment exists because it only a moment, something that will eventually end. harry’s driver is coming to fetch him back to surrey this evening. class starts tomorrow.

“why are you bloody messing with my hair?” harry mumbles, eyes still closed. louis’ chest stutters, betraying a silent laugh.

“never seem to mind when i play with you,” louis’ voice pours over him like liquid gold, smooth like silk and lacquer.

“generally, you’re playing with my prick, though,” harry corrects. louis shifts next to him, body warm and supple against harry’s side. harry is too sleepy to open his eyes, and he feels like a kitten as he curls into louis’ side, pressing his morning wood into the cleft of louis’ hipbone shyly. louis traces his shoulder, and it tickles, makes harry’s spine shiver all the way down to the top of his bum. he tries not to laugh

louis pulls the cotton sheet over their head, casting the golden-bright sunlight from outside in a white gauze. he kisses harry’s cheekbone, whispering, “let’s pretend we never have to leave this bed.”

he’s been up earlier than harry has; he can smell the cigarette and coffee on louis’ breath. he wipes his eyes of sleep, blinking over and over at louis’ face. if he looks close enough, he can see very faint freckles on his nose.

“i can’t not return to school, lou,” harry grumbles, “i’d be reduced to nothing more than a kept boy.”

louis laughs under his breath, “babe, you already are a kept boy. my kept boy. because i’m keeping you.”

harry rolls his eyes, and they flutter close again as he feels the inklings of sleep pull him back. he won’t really fall all the way to sleep, but he wants to preserve this as long as he can. “you really are ridiculous, you know.”

“please. you’re french. what do you know about ridiculousness,” louis goads, but harry doesn’t take the bait, just nuzzles his nose into louis’ neck, hand coming up to skim the inside of louis’ thigh. he nudges louis’ hip again, softly, reminding him of his hard on.

“you’re so subtle,” louis drawls, “always hungry for it, kitten.”

nonetheless he finds harry’s wrists and pins them together near his hip, rolling over him underneath the sheet. harry lies still, breathing softly, refusing to open his eyes. louis kisses him, biting his bottom lip and pulling it, pulling away, making harry crane his neck to reach him. his knee comes between harry’s legs and harry feels louis bite at his jaw, not hard enough to mark.

louis lets go of harry’s wrists, but harry knows well enough to keep them against his sides anyway. he can feel his dick against his pants, pressing, the small of his back arching up over the mattress when louis skims the head of his dick through the material, fingers soft and stroking, mindful to elicit the most reaction out of him.

“you look good, haz,” louis whispers, and harry keens, wanting more, wanting louis to touch him everywhere, to feel consumed and wrecked by everything inside of him. the need is suffocating, crushing, nearly engulfing him whole. he can feel sweat pool at the nape of his neck as he tries to hold still, hips coming off the bed in small motions, seeking friction.

louis’ fingers skim the planes of harry’s flat stomach, sitting up and adjusting himself between harry’s legs. he draws harry’s pants down, his dick free and slapping lightly against his stomach. harry opens his eyes then, when louis lowers himself, manoeuvring harry’s knees so they sit against louis’ shoulders. his breath is warm against harry’s backside, and harry squirms, hoping and wishing to what is come and not quite believing it’s true.

the first lick against harry’s hole is broad and makes him nearly keen off the bed. his mouth gapes open as he huffs out a breath, teeth touching the sheet as it presses against his face. louis kisses him then, pressing against his rim with his tongue. louis is eating harry out and harry can only yelp helplessly as the pleasure builds up inside of him, tingling and painful and powerful in the base of his spine.

he grips the sheets tightly as louis gets to work, tongue pushing in and out of him and he feels the sweat dripping down his temple, his curls probably an absolute display as they matte against the pillows. he writhes, his thighs twitching against where they sit on louis’ shoulders.

“lou, fuck,” he hisses, feeling himself clench. he knows he should hold onto his orgasm, savour it, but this was too unexpected and too intense, all at once, and he can’t. he presses his palm against the base of his prick, warm and hot as he dribbles against his stomach. he fucks into his hand once, twice, and nearly suffocates against the sheet as he comes, almost pressing himself down on louis’ face before controlling himself. he comes in thick spurts on his stomach, back on fire, unable to feel his toes. louis flips the sheet away from them, flushed and mouth wet, staring down at harry from where he’s perched on his heels.

“look at you,” louis says, and somehow he still commands all the power on the mattress even though he just got harry off with his tongue, his cheeks flushed, “such a mess, babe.”

“yeah,” harry nods weakly, blinking. louis shucks off his t shirt and rubs most of the mess of harry’s stomach.  harry sits up, reaching for louis’ cheeks.

“you want to kiss me with this mouth?” louis laughs, eyes sparkling and dark, “you’re absolutely filthy.”

“shut up,” harry says, still floating on his orgasm. he pulls louis closer until he’s forced to straddle harry, his half hard dick tucked between them. they kiss, harry tasting himself on louis’ mouth, now diluted with saliva. “i feel all fucked, now,” harry murmurs against louis’ teeth.

“you’re gonna get fucked,” louis says, pushing harry down against the bed and tucking his hands neatly above his head. “i’m going to make it slow. i’m going to make you remember it.”

harry nods, swallowing, and louis smiles down at him, pressing his curls out of his eyes. they’re damp.

louis gets off the bed then, leaving harry there. he’s still wearing his pants, not even gotten off the first time, harry realises, as he watches louis rummage for lube. harry stretches his legs against the egyptian cotton, tickling his leg hair. he’s almost tall enough for his feet to hang off the mattress.

harry likes fucking, he likes being taken by louis, he likes being told what to do. he likes it because he knows louis likes it. but he loves kissing. and louis is spending the whole morning kissing him, kissing all of him, his knees, his stomach, his arms, his clavicle, like he’s indulging just for harry’s sake.

they share a cigarette after, louis sitting on the lip on his window, feet flat on the bed. harry is laid out on top of the sheet like a display, wearing one of louis’ white t shirts and a pair of fresh pants. harry doesn’t smoke, but it’s hard to resist when louis passes it to him.

“you look good like this, you know,” louis says, as afternoon turns to dusk, and harry needs to call his car soon, and shower, but he resists wanting to lose the smell of sex and louis and sweat on his skin

“like what?” harry says, looking up through his lashes.

“you know,” louis says, gesticulating with the flick of his wrist. “spread out like this. no inhibitions. not trying to make yourself so small all the time.”

“i thought thats what you wanted, though,” harry says after a moment, fingers drawing invisible patterns into the mattress.

“of course not, harry,” he says patiently, putting out his cigarette on the sill. “i want you to be yourself.”

that’s not true. louis may not know it  but he wants harry always to act a certain way, be a certain way, fit perfectly into the small niche louis has carved out for him. he jokes about harry being a kept boy, and they both laugh, but harry knows deep down that is what he wants: someone pretty, someone seen but not heard. still, the sentiment is there: he wants harry to be himself, despite it that it won’t happen, despite not knowing that’s the opposite of what he actually wants.

harry thinks of how much time he has before he must leave. he sits up onto his knees, crawling towards louis and propping his elbows on louis’ thighs. “when i’m at school, try not to sleep with other people.”

“don’t make me promise things i’ve rubbish at,” louis snaps, and harry shakes his head.

“i’m not making you promise. i’m asking you to try,” harry says. louis nods, relighting another cigarette, blowing smoke in tendrils above harry’s head.

“whatever you want, haz,” louis says absently, playing with his curls. harry smiles, knowing his dimples are peeking out. louis has a weakness for them. this is how harry gets what he wants.

louis presses his hand into harry’s cheek, cupping it gently. harry knows he’s going to pretend he doesn’t miss louis every second of the day. it’s okay, though. he’s gotten used to pretending.

harry smiles into louis’ t-shirt, pressing a kiss right beside his left knee. he’s going to pretend it won’t bother him, being away from louis, going to lectures and seminars and lessons, knowing louis is in london, with other people talking to him and touching him and playing hard to get – someone is always trying to get louis’ attention. it’s a nice dream, harry knows, having someone like louis tomlinson on your tail, but it never lasts. louis is distractable and capricious and fickle. harry distantly wishes he could tell all those girls and boys to go home, to stop trying. louis will never be tamed. he is a wild horse who will never stop running. harry is doing his best to keep up. 

time passes and they lie very still. and louis exhales and harry inhales, as if they share the same pair of lungs.

 

-

 

 

 

 


	4. zayn

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Most importantly, child abuse between parent-child is depicted more than once in this chapter, mostly at the beginning, including specific homophobic hate speech, unhealthy family dynamics, and in violent manners, though they do not dominate the story.
> 
> This story contains toxic relationships. Drugs, alcohol, infidelity are all themes here, and should be read with caution if these are things that upset you. 
> 
> In addition, there are health-related issues that are treated with neglect. 
> 
> There is one largely off-screen, oc-character death.

autumn 2013 / winter 2013

 

their engagement dinner is in knightsbridge. zayn plays with his hermes cuff links, seated at the far end of the table near his father. his fiancé, who he’s only seen a handful of times since this summer sits across from him next to her father. she doesn’t seem to want to look him in the eye.

malia comes from another british pakistani family, their fathers old friendly associates. her family owns textile factories in southeast asia, zayn’s has oil. she’s the eldest daughter, her older brother already groomed to be the next ceo. he’s currently at oxford, studying business, his father tells him.

inside his words are suggestions to be better, zayn can feel them. usually he’s easily able to deflect the condescending tone, the hard waspish voice of his father, the way his accent fits around english and commands presence. tonight it’s harder; zayn can feel the impending sense of doom tingling in his gut when the first course is served. he clenches his fists underneath the table.

his sister nudges the toe of her shoe against his heel. it offers little comfort.

malia is beautiful. she is the picture of eastern beauty: her clear coffee coloured skin, her almond shaped brown eyes, the elegant curve of her neatly arched eyebrow, her rows of perfectly correct white teeth. she speaks fluent urdu, something that pleases zayn’s father to no end, as if it makes up for zayn’s own failure at learning the language. she doesn’t cover her hair, and it hangs long down her back, smelling like expensive perfume and shampoo.

there’s nothing about her that is out of place. this is precisely what zayn hates.

he had hoped, distantly, that she would been dull, petulant, unintelligent. spoiled arabs with more money than god gallivant london like it’s their playground before they jetset back home to jeddah or dubai. that social circle excludes zayn, to an extent, due to his distinctly british passport. he is different from the english boys he goes to school with, and different from arab kids he knows live in his borough.

she has an english education. she’s perfectly polite, well mannered, well spoken. she’s obedient. his father loves her. zayn hates her

he’s angry at malia, for being beautiful, for being muslim, for being a woman. it’s easier than being angry with his father. he wants to tell her that he’ll never love her as long as he lives. he’ll never be faithful. he’ll never want children.

zayn is done being the perfect child. his father’s fat fingers sit on the table, gripping his cutlery loosely but to zayn they look like weapons. when he cuts his lamb, the teeth of the fork scraping against the plate, zayn cringes. his heart beats fast and heavy inside of him like he’s trapped.

when dinner is over and zayn has thanked everyone for coming, the screwed up memory of his engagement toast lingers in his head. the flash of his father’s eyes are still seering into the back of his skull. malia stands near the coat closet, clutching the chain of her chanel bag like a lifeline. she’s nervous, but the way she takes in his face makes her think she’s hungry for it. they both know what this marriage really is: another power play, business deal, scheme, plot, agreement. they’re merely pawns; malia doesn’t mind. zayn does.

“call me tomorrow or something, yeah?” she says quietly as one of her sisters places her fur coat over her shoulders. it’s late november. they’re having a spring wedding because malia wants the wedding to be doused in pale pink and cherry blossoms.

zayn gives her a jerky shake of his head, resolutely not looking at her. he crosses his arms over his torso tightly, like he’s trying to keep all his organs inside. he stalks back to where his mother is bidding goodbyes, her rouge smile never reaching her eyes, and stands quietly, waiting to go.

in the car, zayn’s father keeps a tight grip on the nape of his neck and doesn’t let go the entire way home.

 

-

 

it never starts the way zayn expects. there’s no pattern. he wishes there was. tonight, once they arrive back into their primrose home and their housekeeper lets herself out, his father locks himself in the study for an hour. zayn and his sisters share a look between them; they regard him sadly, quietly, but daren’t utter a word. they all disappear to their rooms, trying to wish sleep as soon as it will come.

the next day will be better, zayn whispers inside his head. this is something he’s stopped telling himself. it will never be better.

by midnight the house is silent, and zayn thinks that the look his father gave him at dinner when he stuttered during his speech will be forgotten, go unpunished. he settles into his sheets, turns off the light.

but he’s not so lucky: it’s half past one in the morning when zayn is awake to the door been pushed open, the overhead light flicker. he blinks, confused, until he sits up and slides to the far corner of his mattress, into the wall away from his father.

“you – “ his father bellows, grabbing zayn by the ankle and dragging him across the sheets until he’s toppled into a pile on the carpet, “your ungrateful spitefulness never ceases to amaze me, zayn – i am gifted with a son who is good at nothing, who pleases no one, who cannot rise to the occasion, and you regard my decisions with nothing but mockery. you are disgraceful.”

zayn is lifted onto his legs, and his father clouts the side of his ear, hard enough that his head snaps to the side. he groans, trying to push his father off, scrambling to get back on the bed. out of the corner of his eye, he can see his mother in her dressing gown, standing motionless at the door, unseeing.

“i didn’t do anything,” zayn defends himself, his spine aching as he arches back over the mattress. his father grabs one of his elbows, pushing him against the side of bed as he clouts zayn’s other ear. he blinks, cringing and waiting for the next blow to land on him. he closes his eyes.

his father stands up, his belly protruding underneath his nightshirt. he’s breathing hard, his face a puce colour with anger. “you do not understand the lengths i go for you, and you look at me, defiantly, with no respect to your elders, like i have done nothing for you.”

the grip on zayn’s arm is incredibly tight as it presses into the corner to the mattress, holding him there. “that’s not true. i’m grateful.”

zayn’s father regards him with hard disbelief. “a good son never lies to his father, you worthless boy.”

there’s pause there, zayn keeping his arm up to protect his forehead and eyes, and he can hear his heart beating wildly for a moment. then his father stands tall, yanking zayn to his feet. zayn doesn’t look at him. can’t look at him.

“you’ll never understand,” zayn’s father grunts. then he sighs, his tone sinking in zayn’s gut like lead with his next few words. “get the belt.”

“no, papa,” zayn pleads, feeling the prick of panicked tears in the corners of his eyes. “no, i’m trying. i’m happy with everything you’ve done for me.”

“get the belt, zayn,” his father demands, his beady eyes relaying no empathy. zayn can feel his body shaking, standing still for a moment until his father raises his hand again. he scatters, moving to his dresser, pulling out a brown belt.

“please,” zayn whispers as he passes it to him, “please, i’m sorry.”

“i wish you would just listen to me,” zayn’s father laments, turning over the buckle in his large hands. “i wish you would understand that everything i do is make you a good son, and soon, a good husband.”

zayn nods, unseeing, his vision clouded with tears. then he turns over, placing his hands on the mattress, waiting.

the waiting is the worst: it could last decades, a span of years before the first slap of the back on zayn’s thighs; it could last minutes, seconds, less than that. it’s never enough warning. he’s never prepared for it.

he cries out the first time the belt hits his thighs, curses for just wearing boxer shorts to bed and not pyjama pants. his skin sears, burning, and he bites his lip, holding in a harsh breath.

zayn tries not to make a sound, but it’s hard, and they escape him despite his efforts. his chest tugs painfully at the lack of oxygen but he stays still, hands clutching the sheets, nose dripping with his snot onto his duvet. he’s never been able to figure out what is worse. waiting for the snap of the belt, whipping with the speed of a snake ready to attack, or the sting after it, searing, red-hot on his skin.

he knows his sisters can hear what is happening, and he feels helpless to them. he knows that saafa is probably crying, though his elder sisters are immune to this now, used to the sound of zayn pleading for it to stop through their bedroom walls. he can feel his father’s words infiltrate the air around them, the sounds of ungrateful, wasteful, useless, embarrassment of a son – those words will always be an imprint burned into inside of his head.

behind those sounds, behind the pinched nerves in his back, his reflexes held tight in submission, behind flushed cheeks and tired lungs, is liam’s voice. it’s been months since he saw him last, or talked to him. everything between them is nearly finished, no lingers of liam in his life at all; not since the engagement this summer. and yet.

it’s usually the same memory.

“ _okay_ ,” liam had said, maybe when they were sixteen, or even younger, zayn doesn’t know. it doesn’t matter. his voice rings out clear and true somewhere in zayn’s heart, echoing among his organs. “ _i’m yours_.”

zayn closes his eyes.

  


-

  


it’s nearly three in the morning. zayn sits on his side in the tub, running water quietly so his father won’t hear. the water is tinged pink as he sniffles, wiping his face with his flannel, then rinsing it again and dipping it into the wounds on his thighs, his shoulders.

he dresses in a pair of armani sweatpants and a jumper, calling a cab to pick him up down the block in twenty minutes. he makes his bed, picks up the bloody belt and wipes it down, putting it back in his dresser. it’s like a war didn’t just occur in here, his father yelling, zayn yelling back, his mother standing there, motionless. these walls have seen many more scenes like that then would ever betray. nothing is out of place when he turns off his light, shuts his bedroom door.

he thinks about a hotel, but he knows he can’t be alone right now. his body is aching, and he’s unable to sit on his backside fully, instead curling up on his hip and the side of thigh in the back of the black cab. he tells the driver niall’s address without a second thought.

niall’s family has had a house in chelsea since chelsea must have existed, and it’s one of the oldest on the block. as of now, niall lives in it alone. zayn idles outside of it for a moment, the key niall had given him burning a hole in his palm. he lets himself in, quietly, smiling to himself as he takes in the dirty trainers by the massive grand staircase, the random football bags littered around antique side tables and massive chandeliers. niall’s taste lies much more in the up and coming east side, where the young and rich are slumming it because it’s cooler, but he also can’t be bothered enough to find his own flat in algate or shoreditch until he starts school.

this is at least what niall has told him. zayn hasn’t spoken to him nearly enough since he returned from greece, suntanned and less sad than before. he seems to drink less, at least.

niall has always been his best friend since they were young lads at preparatory school. they’d just been tots then, but zayn remembered being the only one with darker skin and niall was the only irish kid and they had become friends after louis tomlinson had demanded they be in his club with little, pipsqueak liam payne.

they had had other friends, all through school, but none of them are close like niall and zayn are, or even niall and louis and zayn and liam are. none of them can be trusted the way he can trust his boys. despite this, he still hasn’t spoken to louis since zayn made a complete git of himself on his doorstep in southwark.

zayn is grateful niall is not in yet, and the house is empty. he goes up a flight of stairs to the second reception room, this one far more relaxed than the one on the ground floor, and sinks into the leather sofa, turning the flat screen on. outside, west london is twinkling beautifully. zayn mutes the telly, curling up with a wool blanket that smells like cigars and musk, wrapping it around himself. he lies on his side, careful to mind his back, and falls asleep before his head even properly hits the pillow.

he’s woken up an hour later the sound of keys on a glass table top, niall’s tell tale feet hitting the stares as he comes up to the first floor. a moment later he can feel niall’s fingers on his cheeks, pressing slightly to wake him up. he’s always so gentle, as if he’s afraid to leave even the slightest mark.

“haven’t seen you much, ya lanky git,” niall whispers, smiling as he helps zayn sit up. he takes in the hesitation, the careful way zayn holds his body, and his grin falls, fingers curling up to the lip of his jumper and pulling it off. his voice turns deadly serious when he says, “where does it hurt?”

“’m fine, ni,” zayn protests, then sighs a second later. niall is one of the few people he can be truly open about this, because niall has seen it happen before. there are no secrets between them. or at least, no more than anyone else in their tight knit circle.

niall scrambles for a side lamp and turns zayn around gently, fingers handling his bruised elbow and making zayn wince. he disappears into the bar area, opening up drawers until he finds what he’s look for. when he comes back into zayn’s view, he’s holding a first aid kit. “i was hoping our reunion after a summer apart wouldn’t be like this,” niall shrugs, and zayn feels terrible suddenly.

“i’m sorry. i should – i should have called. i’m a tit, i’m sorry,” zayn says, face flushing.

niall waves him off, “shut up. you’ve had a lot of shite to deal with lately, and so have i, i reckon,” niall’s eyes goes glossy for a moment, and zayn cringes inside at even the hint of the funeral that happened last may. he tries not to think about it.

niall handles the cuts on his back, the welts from the belt buckle left there, cleaning them with warm water and rubbing some kind of ointment them. he’s done this before, niall has – that’s a skill he’s had to learn from being around zayn for more than a decade. zayn stays quiet, patiently, unnaturally still.

“is there anywhere else?” niall asks softly, fingers pressing around the skin softly on the last welt on his shoulder. zayn wants to shake his head no, but he’s learned from years of friendship and years of learning how to lie that there’s no point in lying to niall. since the accident and the funeral last may, niall has a raw, sturdy look in his eyes, like he’s seen things he can’t quite recover from. he’s not the same, anymore.

zayn bites his bottom lip, nodding, standing up and placing a knee on the couch cushion before slipping out of his sweats. he rolls up the lip of his briefs, giving niall a full view of the welts on his thighs. he feels like he’s having an out of body experience – something that usually occurs earlier than this, when he and his father have a go at each other. now though, he feels stupidly dazed, like it’s just sinking in.

“christ, zayn,” niall curses, a hand rubbing his mouth. “this is fucked up, mate. your back wasn’t enough, for him?”

“s’not about that,” zayn shakes his head, feeling the return of panic well in his throat, emotional again as he heaves a great sigh. “it’s about...humiliating me. putting me in place.”

niall nods, like he expected an answer like that, before getting to work on his thighs. his touch is every softer now, feather light, as he skims around, trying to clean the wounds best he can without invading zayn’s personal space. bit late for that, zayn thinks cynically, but the intention is nice nonetheless.

“hasn’t been this bad in a while,” niall mutters as zayn slips his pants and trackies back on. zayn nods, rubbing a hand through his hair, his face flushed.

“he’s usually travelling, or i was at school, but now he’s back in london until the wedding,” zayn shrugs, then shakes his head like he’s trying to get rid of all the thoughts in his head. “fuck, the wedding.”

“did you talk to your mum ‘bout it?” niall asks, sitting beside him and rubbing a hand over his bony knee, “you said you’d talk to her, see if she could make him postpone it.”

“i did,” zayn nods, thinking back to when he was sent to the south of france to spend a month getting to know malia. mostly they spent their time in separate apartments of the chateau her family owned, rarely speaking unless forced to go to dinner. that was when liam had changed his number, and zayn thought he was really going to fucking lose it. “fat lot of good it did me.”

niall sighs, “alright. let me make ya somethin’ to eat, then. you look right skinny.”

zayn snorts, “you’re the absolute best, you know.”

“course i know,” niall retorts. “don’t need to be reminding me.”

zayn nods, looking around the massive ceilings with their raised ceilings, the large georgian windows overlooking the best bits of chelsea and fulham, the clean glass tables, free of finger smudges. “this place feels empty, ni. how much time do you actually even spend here?”

niall sighs from the bar, sounding like he’s grilling something on the george forman plug in he’s got on the counter. “not much. don’t really want to be here, ya know, but it’s better than being at the house in ireland.”

there’s something unspoken there that zayn doesn’t probe at. niall’s wounds are fresh and raw, tender to even think about to touching. he feels the hot slick of shame coat his insides at what an absolutely terrible friend he’s been. he went to the funeral, but that isn’t enough. he should have done more. he should have gone with niall to greece.

“yeah,” he says hollowly, and niall doesn’t say anything in return. “when you starting your gala-charity season?”

niall groans, “got invited to at least three of ‘em next week and it’s not even proper december yet. gotta go, you know, seeing as i’m now the only horan left to inherit.”

“but then you’re on to christmas, that’ll be nice, i expect.”

niall shrugs, looking distant again as he comes over and sets a poorly assembled but nonetheless delicious looking quesadilla in front of zayn. he rubs his mouth again, thinking.

the last time zayn had stayed with nialls’ family, one christmas, he had acquired this empty, sad feeling at how close niall was with his family, how rather boisterous and smothering they were. the love they exuded was a little overwhelming compared to the lack of it in zayn’s own. when they were home, and it was just the horans, it wasn’t about appearances or gossip or upkeep. it was about family. and laughter. and things zayn’s never been truly taught. niall is loved unconditionally. zayn has no idea what that is.

the maliks don’t celebrate christmas. everyone knows that, despite that zayn’s mother sends out holiday greetings to everyone in their circles.

they watch the telly without sound, before niall takes zayn’s empty plate and puts it in the bar sink for later, probably for housekeeping to find tomorrow. he extends his hand to zayn, who looks at it.

“come on, to my room,” niall shrugs, looking down the empty hall towards the staircase. “haven’t had a bed mate in ages.”

zayn takes his hand and they go the flights of stairs to the next floor, holding hands like they used to when they were little kids, running up and down the stairs, hiding around the horan house playing hide and seek, or search and destroy; that was when niall’s twin had been there, too. annie had a presence no one could ever contain: now it lingers in the house, empty and eerie, a reminder of last may and all that has happened since then.

niall doesn’t seem to be dealing with it well, but. zayn doesn’t think he expects otherwise.

every word zayn has ever used to describe niall comes to mind just then: resiliency and excitement and contagious laughter; zayn has never really met anyone like him. now he sags under the weight on his broad shoulders, his bright blonde hair falling against his forehead, the small half moon shadows under his eyes. he’s mourning. it shows in how he holds his bones, that he’s mourning.

niall’s room is not the explosion zayn expects; there are a few hugo boss bags in the corner, a pair of nikes near the door. zayn wonders how much time niall spends here, again. it seems like it might be the first time he’s been home in ages.

niall pulls back to the covers, disappearing to piss and brush his teeth, throwing an extra toothbrush to zayn. they curl up on the sheets, zayn on his side with one knee tucked to his chest, niall on his back. when zayn thinks niall has finally fallen asleep, he lets out a shaky sigh.

but niall wasn’t asleep, because he rolls forward, curling up around zayn, pressing the back of zayn’s neck into small concave of his chest, stroking the ends of his hair. zayn can’t help it; he’s not held like this ever, by anyone except liam, and that is long over now. he crumbles, feeling his resolve deteriorate as tears fall sideways out of his eyes onto a silk pillow. niall doesn’t say anything, doesn’t confirm what is happening, doesn’t really even move. he just holds him there, as zayn tries to regain his breath, tries to force the panic down. it’s hard. it takes a few minutes. he can feel niall’s mouth near his forehead, pressing into a kiss, and it’s what he needs, now. he needs this. he grapples for niall’s shirt, clutching it as he breathes, a horrible sound emitting out of his throat like he’s been strangled.

soon, he quiets, and zayn can feel the salt start to dry on his cheeks as exhaustion grabs hold and he starts to slip into sleep. niall doesn’t let go for hours.

 

 

-

 

niall isn’t there in the morning, though his side of the bed is made and tucked in neatly. it’s nearly noon when he really rises out of bed. he showers, skimming through nialls’ closet to find something to wear. it’s unusually neat, like nothing zayn has ever seen before in niall’s room.

he redresses in his sweatpants, a thick black tommy hilfiger jumper he found in niall’s closet that might actually belong to him, and his old marc jacobs moto jacket, running his hands through his wet hair. he needs to shave; his father does not think it’s suitable for him to have facial hair until he’s older and married.

it’s not until he’s called danny, one of his few mates who didn’t go to st. peters, but rather eton instead, to meet him for lunch in chelsea that he realises there’s a message on his phone. it’s a voicemail, something he rarely gets anymore, because the only person who ever left him them were liam, and –

and.

he has a half mind to delete the message. it’s from an unknown caller, which further confirms that it might be liam, because he changed his number late last summer while zayn was supposed to be having a romantic holiday with malia.

but the other part of him, a much stronger, more masochistic part of him says no, listen to it. not yet, but when you need to, listen to it.

he turns off his phone, doesn’t touch it. it feels like a burning whole in his pocket.

  
  


-

 

now he can’t stop thinking about liam. zayn was getting better at not thinking about him, of ignoring the lump in his throat every time he saw louis near one of the kings campuses, or they shared a joint after a lecture and louis would drop liam’s name here and there, testing boundaries like he always does. he was getting good at pretending it didn’t hurt him anymore. he was good at pretending he didn’t ache for liam, think about him while he touched himself at night, or touched malia.

he knows that he’s still so fucking in love. this relationship, the beginning of it, the arc of it spanning nearly his entire academic career at st. peter’s, nearly all liam’s first year at kings, has been a profound example of zayn’s failure as a son.

he’s been tempted by something bright and good looking, by liam’s laugh and his easy confidence, the way his legs look when they flex after he’s came, the way he used to take zayn in his mouth when they were supposed to studying; these have all been direct mistakes zayn has made, mostly on purpose when he’s give in to temptation, when his want interrupts what he should be doing, when his matter is over mind.

he is weak. liam makes him weak.

he wants to listen to the voicemail, but he doesn’t, yet. he wants to punish himself first. he’s saving it for when he needs it. maybe the voicemail will erase itself, though zayn knows it won’t. he would never let that happen.

  


-

  


when they were at school, zayn was always trying to provoke liam into leaving him. he didn’t want there to be anymore destruction than there already was once they were going to break apart, which zayn knew was bound to happen eventually. zayn is no optimist and he’s no fool, and he saw this coming. he knew.

he was helpless to stop it, to warn liam.

the truly fucked up part was that he doesn’t really regret not ending it earlier. when he’s at luncheons with his father, which are now largely based around malia talking about wedding plans, flower arrangements, what the guest list will look like, he thinks of liam. he can’t help it. the memory of him, of the small moments they had, are all he has to himself. aside from niall, and louis, and his other, less intimate friends, no one ever touches him without wanting something in return. liam taught him how to hug, to hold, how hands are made not to hurt, but to help.

when he sleeps with malia in her parents’ house the first week of december after a charity ball, he makes her turn on her hands and knees, fingers pressed into her hips as he fucks into her relentlessly from behind. not a hair is out of place, even when she comes with zayn’s thumb on her clit. not a nail chipped.

when she leaves to go shower and scrub zayn off her skin, zayn calls a cab back to his house. he doesn’t even leave a note.

  


-

 

his father invites him into the study when he gets home, letting himself in quietly. zayn gauges his mood, he seems calm, but then again that relies almost nothing. his father is an impressive force, an angry ocean closely resembling a human man.

“how’ve you been, zayn?” his father asks from behind his desk, “i know you have your exams next week. i expect you’re studying quite hard.”

zayn’s barely concentrating on his lectures, but he’s been scraping by alright. they’re on introductory lectures, anyway. “yes, of course.”

“good,” his father sits back, “malia was speaking to me earlier about a honeymoon in sydney, how does that sound to you? it is the only one you ever get, after all.”

“no,” zayn says suddenly, insides cringing at the prospect of taking his new wife to the same city where he reunited with liam nearly three years ago. his father looks at intensely at his outburst, “i’d much rather somewhere like the maldives, or thailand.”

zayn’s father considers, nodding. “sounds entirely reasonable. you are the man of your relationship, after all. you should command what you think is best.”

he nods along, faintly agreeing. his father regards him over his folded hands, his eyes piercing like ice. “i hope you know that your mother and i are very proud of this decision you’re making, zayn. you know that when my father started doing business, he came to this city with nothing. nearly nothing. and they say to him, ‘ah, but you must be from saudi,’ and he would stand proudly and say he was pakistani. i’m telling you this because malia is also pakistani, and it is important to us, important to our name and to our family. our legacy rests with you now.”

his praise sounds like a thinly veiled warning, his tone light but his half smile does not reach his eyes, which stay hard. he waves for zayn to stand up once he realises zayn has nothing to say in return.

“remember, zayn, what being a good man means,” his father says, and zayn nods, showing himself out. somehow, he is more shaken than he has been in a while.

 

-

 

it’s that night that he realises he can’t do this. he’s lying in bed in his childhood bedroom, curled into the wall. his back is finally starting to heal. malia hadn’t said anything, had barely batted an eye when she saw zayn naked a few days before. she comes from an upbringing similar to zayn, where they’re both raised to never let anything bother them. their feelings are never to betrayed on her face. apathy is in vogue for this generation, something zayn has clearly failed in mastering.

he finds his phone, scrolling for his voicemail. with a shaking hand, he dials it, waits, and listens.

 _i know it’s shit for me to call_ , the voicemail starts. liam’s voice sounds watery, distorted by the mobile reception. zayn nearly smiles at the self-deprecating way liam speaks of himself. _but i couldn’t help it. i’m in spain for most of christmas hols, and it just reminds me of you, and i couldn’t – i just. i’m sorry. i’m still. okay. i’m sorry_.

this time, when he starts to cry, niall isn’t there to soothe him. no one is.

 

-

 

he drains one of his accounts at an atm, which takes ages, moving it into another account under waliyah’s name, though he has the card to it. his father won’t notice right away, and if he does, his sister will smooth it out for him. a few thousand pounds doesn’t mean much to him.

“mum has another trust for you,” doniya tells him at brunch in south kensington the next morning, just the two of them. “father doesn’t know, but i do. i was sneaking my way through some of her statements. this one was hidden in her jewellery drawer.”

“that’s dirty, that is, sneaking round mum’s stuff,” zayn shakes his head, but something in his gut lets up, and he feels lighter. “do you reckon she’ll tell me about in case father cuts me off?”

“yeah. i think that’s what it’s for,” his sister says, biting the end of her straw. “listen, zayn. i...”

he waits. doniya seems to regain herself, though her eyes look cloudy. “it’s hard, you know. because he’s papa. but don’t think for a second i don’t know that what he is doing, and has done, is wrong.”

he reaches across the table to touch her hand. “it’s okay,” he says, because he’s supposed to be her strong brother and he’s fucking weak. shame bubbles up inside of him, embarrassed that he’s flushed in like this public.

“no, babe,” doniya shakes her head, “it’s not okay. it’s never been okay. i should have said something, anything. but it’s hard.”

zayn knows just how hard it is. “i don’t know if i can do this. i’m terrified that he will do something drastic. that he’ll disown me.”

his sister nods gravely, playing with one of her michael kors bangles. “i think, what we need, is a plan.”

 

-

 

he meets malia at the 34 in mayfair near her flat. she’s wearing a grim look on her face, completed with a burberry trench and her iphone in hand, not looking up when he sits down across from her. there’s a tumbler of cognac waiting. good muslims don’t drink, but it’s easy to ignore what doesn’t suit you. zayn has never made any qualms about being a good at anything. malia sips from a tall glass of sugar free plum juice.

“hey, love,” he breathes, shucking off his winter coat and kissing her cheek. malia doesn’t blink. “how’ve you been?”

“you’d know, if you called,” malia says sharply, then she smiles, her face softening. “doesn’t matter. your father called and said you didn’t want sydney.”

zayn shakes his head, “no. and listen, i think it’s best if we don’t see each other for these last three weeks. we’ll reunite this new years eve, after the hustle of christmas has settled. i think louis and some of my mates want to take me on holiday.”

malia’s eyes wrinkle in the corner as she smiles, this time more sly, a calculating look on her face. it creases some of her makeup. “ah, i see.”

“is that – alright?” zayn feels strange asking. he doesn’t have to do it often.

she shrugs, her dainty shoulders slipping out of her trench, revealing a pale pink cashmere sweater, as soft and creamy as money can buy her. “i don’t see any reason why not. i never carded you for a romantic.”

he’s not, but he’ll use that to his advantage. he tries his best smoulder, something that never really worked on liam, and certainly not the other lads, reaching for her hand across the table, “it’ll be nice, you know. spend time with your girlfriends and your mum before we tie the knot. live the last part of this year doing whatever you want, and then we can be together.”

she smiles, her straight white teeth pearly against her lipstick, “and then we can be together for the rest of our lives.”

zayn resists the urge to scrunch his face up, instead aiming for a smile. “sure, love.”

the resume with their drinks, malia ordering something from the bar a while later. this type of joint is very malia, very mayfair: sleek, chic, unbothered, simple. it’s nice, zayn thinks, looking at the art deco interior. he doesn’t mind it.

that’s part of the fucking problem: he doesn’t mind it. if he were another boy, or fuck, even the same boy, but a boy who had never met liam and never fallen in love and never realised he was fucking – that he was into boys, he probably wouldn’t have minded marrying her. she’s smart, far smarter than him, and ambitious, competitive with her brother for the top position for their family’s business. she’s beautiful, but that’s a given.

he likes malia. he hates that he does, but he likes her. he doesn’t love her, though.

he knows that her body will never smell like sweat, rain and dirt, the way liam’s does when he comes back from a trail run. he’ll never wake up with the bed empty, the shower on, because liam liked to be early and malia sleeps in. her hands will never smell like the dribbles of oranges from peeling them all day, like liam’s did when he’d slip them into his mouth during classes. her face will never scrunch up in that ugly, absurd way liam’s does when he laughs. it’s so genuine that zayn has come to love it, when liam tips his head forward, chin touching his chest, trying not snort.

liam is pure country boy, pure north, and while he fits in well with the city, zayn likes all the things about him that aren’t just perfectly orderly, normal, expected. he likes liam’s messy bits, his wellies, his fondness for trees and long walks and dogs. he likes liam’s snoring and his attachment to plaid and tartan, he likes that liam is polite to anyone and everyone, no matter who they are or where they’re from.

liam never expected zayn to be perfect. up until recently, he was the only person whose love was unconditional. zayn didn’t know unconditional existed. there were always strings attached when it came to love.

in that respect, malia is no different. whatever affection she may have for zayn is advantageous. he doesn’t blame her.

zayn pays the bill, malia not looking up from her phone. she holds his hand as they stroll through mayfair’s high street. malia’s nails are manicured and square tipped and it just reminds him how liam’s hands were always clammy and his nails were bitten down to the quick, and his fingers are padded with calluses. he was gentle, in a way that zayn almost has difficulty imagining how his touch used to feel like. liam always made sure he never made a mark.

malia’s talking about the wedding. zayn isn’t listening.

 

-

 

over dinner that evening, he moves his final piece into play. waliyah is playing with her food, not eating, her finger sliding over her phone lazily as saafa talks quickly about her school project. as soon as she dies down, zayn clears his throat.

he directs himself to the head of the table where his father sits. “malia and i have decided to go on separate holidays for winter break, and then reunite for the annual new year’s eve event.”

“ah,” his father says shortly, cutting a piece of lamb and chewing on it slowly. he eyes zayn sternly over his glasses. “now why is it that you’d want to be away from your future bride for three weeks, then?”

“s’not just my idea,” zayn lies carefully, “it’d be like our last hurrah. i go on an extended stag party with some mates, and she spends time with her mum and sisters before she moves out. she said it’d be romantic to spend time apart before the wedding.”

“the wedding isn’t until march,” his father says, scrapping his fork against the side of  his plate. “surely it wouldn’t be more appropriate much later, after your break. 

zayn shrugs, trying for nonchalant, “my friends have this time off too. it was just practical for all of us, including malia. she seemed to like this idea.”

“and where exactly did you want to go?”

“spain, i expect. southeast spain.”

“it’s nice this time of year, i expect,” zayn’s father nods, and he feels his heart lift, thinking that this might go smoothly and he can start packing his bags. then, “and which friends are these?”

“just some mates, mostly from st. peter’s,” zayn shrugs, hands twisting underneath the table, “it’ll be nice to see them.”

“well if they’re such good friends, then i probably know them. which ones are going?” zayn’s father asks again, a hard edge to his tone. he puts down his knife and fork, sitting up in his chair. “zayn.”

zayn bites his lip for a moment, “louis tomlinson. this kid named harry styles. niall horan. you know ‘em all.”

“and you’re quite sure you’re telling me the truth?” he says slowly. zayn doesn’t dare break eye contact for a moment, though he can feel the room go silent. his mother has stopped chewing, fork in hand. his sister looks between zayn and her father, eyes darting back and forth.

zayn nods, “yeah,” he says, hating the way his voice cracks, “that’s who i’m going with it.”

“the last time i recall, the tomlinsons doesn’t have a house in spain, nor do the horans. and i know you’re not staying in a hotel, unless i’m mistaken. so where will you stay?”

zayn swallows, feeling his cheeks flame, “dunno yet. probably with harry. his grandmother has a villa, i believe.”

he flinches when his father slaps his hands flat on the table, shaking the china. “i’m going to ask you stop while you’re ahead. you think i can’t see it written all over your face? where are you staying, son?”

zayn flinches as he says, “the boys – they want, the boys and i, we’re staying at liam payne’s place.”

“get up,” zayn’s father snarls, fingers gripping the lip of the table, “into the other room.”

“i’m sorry, i didn’t want you to be angry,” zayn starts, flushed properly now.

but his father shakes his head, “you didn’t want me to be angry? i forbid you after graduation never to see that boy again – he is trouble for you zayn, always distracting you from your cello and your studies. you have done well to obey until now. get. up.”

“papa, no, listen, zayn didn’t mean – “ doniya starts as zayn rises to stand. their father whirls around, finger at his daughter.

“you do not speak to me like that, doniya. this is between me and your brother. know your place,” he says, and doniya looks down, face the colour of a plum. zayn follows his father into the library, closing the door softly behind him. he stands there against the wood, watching his father’s agitated form.

waiting.

finally his father whirls around, fingers pulling at his moustache. “it pleases me that you’re discussing things with malia now. she is to be your wife. you should get used to it. it does not please me, however, that you think you can lie to your father.”

zayn nods numbly. “i know, i’m sorry. i won’t do it again.”

“that’s what you always say, zayn, then you go and disrespect me again. i don’t understand how many times i must put it through your thick head that i you need to respect me.”

“i do – i do respect you,” zayn protests. “i just don’t understand why i’m not allowed to be friends liam payne, he’s no influence on me.”

“you know why you’re not allowed,” his father says evenly, though the colour of his face betrays his calm voice, his brow twitching, his suit straining against his stomach. “people have talked, zayn, about you hanging around that boy. he’s no good.”

“tomlinson is just as bad, if not worse, and he’s in the paper loads, you have no problem with him – “ zayn is interrupted when a palm connects with his cheek. he did not see it coming like he does, sometimes, and it stalls him, making him stumble back. his father was wearing a ring on his left hand and zayn can feel something wet, warm, when he pulls his fingers away.

“you push me until i cannot control myself with your incessant arguments, your unnecessary defiance,” his father growls, “you are a wretched boy.”

“i’m not,” zayn protests, face burning, “i’ve done everything you asked. played cello for years. got into kings when i wanted cambridge. marrying malia. everything you want, i’ve done.”

“and why is it, do you think, that you are to be married at 18? it’s hardly a custom i believe in. why not 21? or 25? surely you would be much better off supporting her then,” his father says cruelly, his eyes angry and scrutinizing.

“i don’t know,” zayn shakes his head.

“you do know,” his father nods slowly, “you know because there have been whispers about you and that boy. and i will have none of that. my son is not that way.”

“which way,” zayn shouts, because his father won’t even say it, and his heart is beating wildly in his chest. “which way am i not allowed to be?”

“ _gay_ ,” his father retaliates, tipping over a side table and crashing the lamp, a glass vase shattering. “you are not a _faggot_ , you are not gay, zayn, and i will beat it out of you if i have to.”

“you’ve beat me enough, don’t you think?” zayn whispers, breath shuttering when his father slaps his again, neck cracking from the force of it. his cradles his cheek, now slick with blood from the cut underneath his eye. “you don’t even need a reason to do it, you just do it.”

“that’s a lie,” his father shouts, pushing zayn up against one of the bookshelves, holding his neck in place, squeezing. zayn’s fingers come up to clutch at his father’s hand, trying  to pull back against his hand, his windpipe protesting. “i am trying to protect you from everything out there, to make you strong. i am trying to teach you to be a good man, as my father taught me.” 

zayn smells the sweat and cigar on him, trying to push away. he can hear blood rushing loud in his ears, and he tries to push off one more time, feeling the pressure grow on his neck. finally his father relents, and zayn thinks it’s finally over, and he takes a deep breath, only to feel a fist connect with his jaw 

he crumples. he should have seen it, and in a way he did, coming down upon him like the wrath of god. his head spins, eyes wet and out of focus as he squats down to nurse his chin with his hand, his body pulsating. his father sighs quietly, turning his back and walking to the other side of the library.

“listen, you’ve upset me. i tell you something, you do it,” zayn’s father says resignedly. he waves his head, and zayn sees a flash of blood on his ring. it makes him sick to his stomach. “don’t speak to me in such a tone, and never bring it up again.”

“of course,” zayn nods, his mouth throbbing and swollen. his lip is fat. “i’m sorry. if it counts for anything  - liam won’t even be there. he just gave louis the keys to his house.”

his father fixes him with a look, starting deeply into his eyes for any sign of a lie. finally he relents. “in that case, enjoy your holiday. take the black card with you." 

zayn nods, standing up, cupping his chin so he doesn’t bleed onto his shirt. his father doesn’t spare him another glance, making way to disappear through the door that leads to his study. he pauses at the doorway, hand on the moulding.

“i hope you’re not lying to me again, zayn,” he says quietly, and zayn can feel the dread circling in his stomach, “you know where that leaves us.”

 

-

 

 

zayn lets himself into the chelsea home later that night, bag packed. he thought about calling a car from primrose straight to heathrow, but thought better of it. he’s been a shit friend to one of his only friends, and there’s some part of him that needs to remedy that. he has this strange need to prove himself better than his father makes him out to be.

no lamps have been lit on the ground level, the checked marble flooring reflecting the purple dusk outside. zayn climbs to the second floor, then the third when it is revealed as empty.

he pushes open niall’s bedroom door to find a small lump underneath the blankets, unmoving. it’s past eight in the evening, and he has a horrible feeling niall’s not moved all day.

this is behaviour louis would sometimes exhibit, when he was coming down off a weekend bender or didn’t get to go to monaco for the weekend, pure pout. zayn has seen this type of state with his mum, too, when things got rough between her and zayn’s father.

niall’s not like this, though. he exudes light. he has bits of sun in his skin. zayn leaves his bag by the door, slipping his nikes off and creeping into the sheets, rolling into niall’s warmth. he curls around niall’s body, pressing his cold fingers into his ribcage until zayn can feel him stir, murmuring sleepily.

“hey,” niall says, his voice scratchy from disuse. “you okay?”

“i think i should ask you that, mate,” zayn says softly as niall rolls around. his eyes are sunken into his skull as he blinks lazily at zayn, his skin dull and lifeless, even in the dark. there’s no flush among his cheeks, his hair falls flat against his head. the brown is coming back. for some reason, niall’s roots showing are what make zayn uncomfortable the most.

niall shrugs, licking his lips. zayn nudges his knee between niall’s legs, his heat intoxicating and familiar. as kids they never stopped sharing a bed. they never wanted to be too far apart. “you’ve been asleep all day, then?”

niall laughs, but there is no humour in it, and his smile falls a moment too short. “s’not like that. just having a bad day. woke up and everything just seemed...”

“shit,” zayn finishes for him softly.

he makes a soft noise, nodding. “yeah. exactly.”

“you know i’m here,” zayn says awkwardly, shrugging despite himself. “if you need me.”

“i know that, git,” he says, sighing, “i think this house is killing me, though. not the same without her here.”

it’s the most niall’s so much as mentioned his sister. even the pronoun seems heavy on his tongue, like it’s choking him. zayn feels a twinge of hurt, twisting inside of him, not unlike the feeling of a bruise pulsating underneath his skin.

“i’m running away to spain to find liam,” zayn whispers, nudging himself into the space between niall’s neck and shoulder. “how stupid am i?”

“how’d you get your father to swing that?” niall muses, fingers tucked into zayn’s hair, fucking with the quiff he had. doesn’t really matter, at this point. “your face has obviously looked better. 

zayn laughs without mirth, “yeah, i mean, i told him it was a lads weekend. you and me and louis, we all going to down to party before the big day.”

“oh, i’m sure liam will love that,” niall teases, rolling his eyes, “fucking you right before you go off and say your ‘i do’s.”

“m’not telling him,” zayn whispers. niall grunts, somewhere before a cough and laugh.

“you are a right idiot, malik,” he chastises, “you’re gonna dig yourself in a hole.”

“i’m already in a hole,” he argues, “i’m never getting out of this marriage. i have three weeks left. i need them.”

“remember when we were kids, and all we worried about when we left the country was if we could contact our dealer before we took off,” niall whispers, nostalgia thick in his throat, “and we’d just roll around in our own dirt, trying to score and only showing up to dinner when summoned.”

“those were the days,” zayn agrees. they make his heart ache.

“so they were.”

they lie there quietly until zayn has to extract himself to get ready for his flight. niall holds him tightly, kissing the side of his hair, gripping his hand before he goes. he looks small and sad, cocooned in his blankets, his grief shining like a light on his face.

in that instance, zayn knows he should stay. he should stay with niall and spend the winter holidays holed up inside this great chelsea mansion, eating takeaway and watching bad telly and online shop while they forget to shower, change their pants, go outside. they could order great vats of expensive champagne just to pour down the sink; be the truly excessive arseholes they used to be when they were in school. they should take niall’s aston martin out for a spin, maybe wrap it around a tree just for kicks.

zayn should stay.

instead, he calls a car. liam is a green light across the sea, and zayn is coming for him.

 

-

 

his flight is long and then again isn’t long enough. he arrives at nearly half eleven in the evening, calling a car to take him the hillside villa liam’s family has owned for half a century.

vaguely, he remembers where the villa is. the summer after liam had left st. peters, they had spent nearly two months there - with the summer sun and kisses that didn’t feel stolen for once and the way liam’s eyes had looked then, unguarded and free. zayn’s stomach twists violently as the car lurches in the stop and curves the spanish streets.

even in the pitch darkness, the house is stuccoed and beautiful, with a long porch that overlooks the private cove, painted an array of vibrant blues and sandy whites. the windows are long and narrow, cracked open for the sheer white curtains peek around the ledges, twirling in the breeze.

liam is standing on the front porch. hand clutching his phone. he’s squinting, like he can’t exactly see zayn. it’s dark. zayn tries not to trip on the steps up, his bag making his shoulder ache.

zayn is tired. he watches liam watch him, his eyes are clear and guarded. his shoulders are broad and freckled, drawn back like he’s keeping a diamond between his shoulder blades. they stand there for a moment, zayn drinking him in like he’s water, aged wine, priceless whiskey kept locked in his father’s cabinet; something needed and forbidden and wanted and secret. zayn drinks him in.

“hi,” he cringes at the sound of his voice, the way it feels like a scratch inside his throat. “i was going to call.”

“niall called,” liam said, holding his phone, “i’m sorry about that stupid voicemail. i was drunk.”

“did you not mean it, then?” zayn asks, his footing already uneven with only a few words from liam, his entire master plan near the brink of ruin. he takes a half step back. “have i come for nothing?”

liam strides forward and takes the bag off zayn’s shoulder, his fingers like electricity on zayn’s skin. “no. it’s not for nothing. i needed – “

liam doesn’t touch him after that. doesn’t tap his shoulder or cup his cheek or press his forehead against zayn’s collar, all trademarks of liam’s gentle affections. instead he places zayn’s vuitton suitcase very neatly inside a bedroom, motioning for  zayn to follow him in. the walls are a pale turquoise, the white ceilings open and lofty. the bedspread is beige.

there are no pictures and there’s a book missing from the empty nightstand, along with a pair of reading glasses, and zayn realizes with a sickening punch to the gut that this isn’t liam’s room, it’s a guest bedroom.

“thank you,” he says instead of what he wants to say, and liam nods solemnly.

“i’ll wake you tomorrow for breakfast if you’re not too tired,” liam whispers, though there is no one else in the house and there is no need to be quiet for once. it’s a practiced, engrained trait. they share one last, parting look before liam closes the door behind him. zayn isn’t sure whether he feels more alone now or back in primrose hill. the ghost of once was between them settles between his bones like dread.

it takes a while for him fall asleep, even though he’s exhausted. the house is silent. liam does not make a sound.

 

-

 

in the morning he can feel the breeze turn bitter as it seeps into the room. zayn wakes up, jaw aching. he goes into the small wash room, splashing cold water on his face and rubbing the last remnants of sleep out of his eyes. he feels the inklings of jetlag creep into the corners of his periphery, messing with his brain. it looks like early morning, but it could be late afternoon. zayn wouldn’t know otherwise.

his jaw is purple, the cut underneath his eye from his father’s ring crusty and a dark burgundy. he fingers it gently, wincing.

there’s a knock on the door, quietly, like zayn’s not supposed to hear it. he grips the handle tightly, swinging the door open to reveal liam on the other side.

he’s taller, or at least he’s not slouching as much. zayn doesn’t know how much time he’s actually been here, though he’s assuming liam sat his exams like everyone else at the end of term before winter exams.

liam’s at the top of his class in the kings history program, a first tier runner for their cross country team: this is all garnishment, though. liam is already poised for taking over for his family, his education all for show and accolades, because it’s what boys like them do: go to school, do well, have a proper degree, and then go into family business, or entrepreneurship. make more money for people who don’t need it. their situations are so similar and yet so vastly different that it’s almost laughable.

his skin is kissed with sun, his hair trimmed neatly against his head. he looks good. he looks more than good. zayn wants to reach out. he doesn’t.

“what happened?” liam asks quietly, moving into the room, careful not to touch zayn as he passes. liam usually never asks what happens between zayn and his father, preferring to ignore it in favour of spending time together, or ignoring the world around them. not anymore, zayn thinks.

“my father doesn’t want me to be around you because people have talked about us,” zayn swallows, “i told him to fuck off.”

“zayn,” liam chastises, turning around to face him, his eyes wide.

“he gave me a choice,” zayn says, looking out towards the windows so he doesn’t have to look him in the eye, “so i chose you.”

“no, you didn’t,” liam says dismissively, an unreadable look on his face.

zayn nods, swallowing thickly. “i told him i wasn’t going to marry malia. i have to be back by new years eve to find a place. probably going to stay with ni for a while.”

“why?” liam asks, like he can’t believe what zayn is telling him.

“what do you mean, why?” zayn repeats back to him, “tired of lying. tired of being hit like i’m a fucking animal, ready to be groomed – tired of doing his bidding. i missed you. i can’t be without you, us.”

liam swallows, his breath shaky on the exhale. “this is risky. you should have done what he wanted.”

“he won’t say anything about it publicly. too much negative press. he doesn’t want people to think we’re nothing if not a perfect family,” zayn says, taking his chance and stepping closer to liam. “but he’s cut me off, for now. we’ll see.”

it’s effortless, easy, to tell these things to liam. zayn sees what he wants presented in front of him and he does not hesitate to take it: in a way that makes zayn sick to his stomach; he is truly his father’s son.

he can feel the blood in his ears. he wants, and he wants, and he’s no good at being denied – he doesn’t do well with the word no. he wraps words into neat explanations between them until he’s close enough to reach out and touch liam, grab hold of him. liam reaches out a moment later, hand shaking, to cup his cheek.

liam should be better at hearing such sweet things, because they’re often rife with falsities. but he’s blinded by his adoration, he’s craving for zayn. zayn is counting on that.

zayn leans into it, fighting the flinch when liam’s thumb brushes against the scrape underneath his eye. “you look tired,” liam finally says, his voice soft and sweet. “there’s breakfast still in the oven. go take a bath, clean up.”

“you taking care me is only a way to distract me,” zayn says, grabbing his wrist and pressing his thumb against the vein there, “don’t. be here with me, be real.”

liam doesn’t look him in the eyes at first, cheeks flushing. “stop knowing me so well.”

zayn is relentless in his memorisation of liam. “i could never do that.” he swallows thickly. “i’m -”

“don’t say you’re sorry,” liam says, but his face breaks out in a sardonic smile, something sad around the edge of his mouth, “whatever you do, don’t do that.”

  


-

  


zayn feels like he’s drowning. in honesty, he’s felt that way since he arrived the night before. he starts his bath, fills the pristine pearl coloured tub half way with warm water. liam stands hovering near the door, watching zayn as he moves.

liam comes up behind him, helps peel the jumper and the top off of zayn’s skinny torso, his fingers coming up to graze the half healed welts on zayn’s back. he doesn’t say anything, won’t let zayn turn around as he moves along down to his trackies, categorising, slipping them off. his thighs gets a similar treatment, except that this time liam knees down and places a small kiss to one of the welts; it feels embarrassingly and dauntingly intimate in way zayn has not known before.

naked, brazen before him, zayn steps in the tub, sitting, head back against the ledge, looking up liam. he is equal parts defiant and shy of his body; telling liam, here i am. look at me. take me in. don’t ever leave me.

it feels obedient in a different way that zayn is used to. it is not tyrannical fear, but careful patience, the way liam’s fingers work into the lather on zayn’s head, washing his hair, sharing a silence the way a couple would share a bed. it is different, the way zayn submits to liam, trapped and imprisoned to his affection, his unwavering attention. zayn is hungry for it.

zayn wants to explain what happened to his back, his face, but all the stories start to sound the same and he’s sick of telling them. he could take liam in his arms and say, _some of this was for you_.

that is too hurtful, too spiteful, even if it is true. liam is a six am sunrise, untouched sea foam, sand underneath zayn’s hands. he is untainted in his privilege, his ignorance. he is still something to covet.

  


-

 

he understands, distantly, what he’s done by lying. he’s keeping liam by driving a wedge between them, something that has never occurred before. they orbit each other, unsure, hurt, proud.

they are no longer the boys waking up on yachts to a new day in the mediterranean or sneak away during polo matches to get stoned; they are no longer the boys who whisper at night underneath university bed sheets, or the ones who slip smiles into each other’s pockets during a cello lesson; they are no longer the boys who spent time together in australia, a million years ago.

this is the hardest of all realisations, zayn thinks: they are no longer who they used to be.

 

-

 

 

it’s quiet when they walk down the beach, outside of the private cove liam’s family owns and into the general beach of the small village, eyeing spanish fishermen and looking at the throngs of children swimming in the swallow waters.

  


zayn takes the time to explain to liam exactly what happened with his father; how he held his mother and how much he’ll miss her and his sisters who knew all along that they’d have to let him go.

liam listens, which is all zayn could really ask for. no arguments. no declarations, just. the breeze and the water and the heat and liam’s hand brushing against his every now and then, teasing.  

in some ways, he wishes this story was true. he’d always would have liked to been a hero, the kind that are made in comic books.

most of the walking is done silently, as it is when liam is trying to process several things at once. he has a habit of disappearing into his own head for minutes, hours, days at a time, his morals and his wants battling out inside his brain; a constant war. liam believes that the right thing to exists, that good exists, that there is a god.

zayn doesn’t, and he doesn’t want to either. he knows family and he knows respectability and he knows you should memorise your quran; that even those things can be put aside when it comes to money and power.

they reach the end of the dock, sweat starting to pool in the canyons of their backs. zayn reaches out to grab liam’s hand, no one around them for a few meters now. he eyes the water below, warm and clear, ignoring the beginnings of liam’s protests. he jumps.

 

-

 

night covers them like a blanket, the sky a dark canvas that looks close enough for zayn to touch. they eat on the terrace, watching the ocean, picking at their king crab and licking their fingers of white wine. liam looks like a picture of wholesome nautical good looks against the backdrop of the ocean; zayn has never fit the picture of the perfect socialite.

they leave the plates for the housekeeper in the morning, creeping back into the villa, hands grazing each other as they pass.

“i’m gonna go take a shower,” liam says quietly, smiling softly, “don’t fall asleep.”

“won’t,” zayn murmurs, fingers coming up to brush against liam’s cheek bone, swallowing. he looks up at liam through his lashes, smiling.

his skin feels tingly, energised, on fire. he can’t sit or lay down, so mostly he just stands over the window, looking at the ocean curling in on the shore every few minutes, the tide low and beckoning.

liam’s fingers rapt on the wood of the door and zayn whirls around, arms tight around himself. the breeze has turned colder, again, but he doesn’t want to close the window just yet. he wants to feel it; the goose bumps on his arms illicit a strange kind of satisfaction.

they stand in front of each other for a moment, careful, sharing air. liam’s hair is wet and pushed back from his forehead, and his eyes are hooded as he watches zayn’s mouth, flickering up every few seconds to his eyes.

“we going to stand here all night?” zayn whispers, a laugh caught in his throat, and when liam doesn’t answer, he looks up, questioning “li?”

“no,” liam says, rougher than zayn expects, his brow drawn in concentration, his jaw flexing. “no.”

the first kiss feels like coming home. liam tastes the same, the same shower gel and italian cologne and toothpaste, and zayn feels himself arch for more. liam’s hands are unsure at first as they wrap around zayn’s middle, but zayn urges him on, clutching the soft cotton of his nightshirt, begging him closer. it’s like a race; a fight; a reunion all wrapped in one, and zayn feels his brain turn off, his blood draining from his head. he feels unexplainably frozen in place, but completely alive.

he can’t catch his breath when liam pulls away, lips shiny with spit, cheeks flushed, eyes glassed over. he looks affectionate and dazed, confused and exhilarated as his hand comes up to brush against zayn’s cheek. he leans again, kissing zayn softly this time, gentle.

they walk backwards until zayn’s knees hit the edge of the bed and they crawl down onto it, liam’s knee fitting between the v of zayn’s legs as he hovers over zayn, mouth moving to bite at his neck. zayn prays he leaves a mark, knowing liam never will.

liam is needy and demanding and zayn is pliant, coming up clutch his shoulders, pulling him closer, thrusting his hips flush against him. liam’s cock hangs hard and thick in his loose pyjama trousers. his smell and his heat are intoxicating as zayn tries to breathe between kissing, hand grappling to palm him, fingers stuttering with excitement.

zayn is wanton for it, something he’s never been before, always holding his lust like a prize just out of liam’s reach, tantalising and lush when they used to dance in circles and tease each other. now is not the time for it. zayn spreads his legs wider, flexing his thighs as he wraps a leg around the back of liam’s leg, pressing him closer. It’s been too long.

he pulls off liam’s shirt, throwing it, hands running down his freckled shoulders, fingers pulling against the tight curve of his adonis cut, sweeping up to brush against his nipples, pulled taut. liam watches him, face red and eyes glassy, half lidded with lust.

“don’t just look at me like that,” zayn groans, pressing his fingernails into liam’s arm, “do something about it.”

liam bends down, sucking zayn into another kiss, wet and dirty as their teeth clack against one another. zayn feels lit from the inside as liam pulls his his shirt off, hands running down zayn’s torso, fingers brushing over a scar on his hip, one near his ribcage. he looks at zayn like he’s a prize, like he’s something special, and zayn will never understand it, why liam looks at him like this, drinks him in like he’s thirsty, like he’s never seen a hundred different naked torsos before. zayn will never understand, but he’ll always want it. he’ll always want liam to look at him like that.

there’s a silent moment between them when liam tips zayn’s jaw back, mouth against his adam’s apple like he’s some kind of animal to be claimed, zayn’s hips working in tiny circles until liam’s hands come to peel off his trousers, his pants.

“what do you want?” liam asks, his voice coming out strangled and harsh.

“everything,” zayn pants, his mind blanking, “fuck me.”

“yeah?” liam’s voice sounds hopeful and rushed, heartbreaking to zayn’s ears.

he nods, and liam scrambles into the other room, running back with a small bottle of lube in his hands, a condom in the other. he manhandles zayn into the center of the bed, where zayn holds his cock against the side of his hip, the pressure of his calloused hand giving way to some sort of relief. he hasn’t felt this turned on since school had ended last june. it feels like something inside of him has woken up.

liam’s fingers are cold and slick and gentle when they move inside zayn, and he can feel the mood change from needy and rushed to something softer, more muted. liam is focused and intent on his goal as his fingers take the first tentative brush against zayn’s prostate. he drops onto his elbow , hovering over zayn, kissing him gently, with purpose.

it makes zayn hyper aware of everything around him, from liam’s fingers inside of him the hand holding his hip, to the way his cock is straining against his palm, the chapped feel of liam’s lips, the distant sound of the ocean outside, the curtains blowing slightly in his periphery, the breeze on his skin. he feels on fire. he could burn through anything. he’s burning right now.

everything is silent, and then, “yeah?” liam asks, his voice like a knife to the fog inside zayn’s head.

zayn nods, closes his eyes for a moment. he can feel liam’s smile pressed into his cheek, his lips at the corner of his mouth.

liam guides his cock in slowly, until he’s inside zayn as far as he can fathom. sweat drips down his neck from the side of his face, making his skin shine against the light from outside;  zayn cannot tear his eyes away. he’s mesmerised by the way their bodies move together fluidly, and the heat that pools in the bottom of his stomach; how intensely it consumes him. liam’s tendons stretch and reach for zayn, taut and strong under his skin.

zayn rolls them over until liam is laid out underneath them, setting an excruciating pace, wanting to watch liam gasp underneath him. he presses his hands into liam’s,, intertwining them, and pushing their palms up above liam’s head, mouth just out of reach. in a way, it feels like punishment. for each of them.

they turn frenzied and hurried, liam’s legs bending at the knee as he meet’s zayn’s demand, rolling his hips into zayn’s every time they meet. his hand comes to pull at zayn’s cock, messy and uncoordinated as heat pools behind zayn’s navel.

“make me feel it,” zayn curses, as liam cries out, muscles straining, “make me remember it.”

“i will,” liam echoes, though he sounds faraway, strung out, “i love you.”

“i know,” zayn chokes, feeling his voice break, before coming in streaks on liam’s stomach, back arching and legs protesting, his vision nearly white out. liam fucks into him twice more before crying out, eyes wide open as he clutches at zayn tightly. zayn rolls off of him and collapses on to the mattress a second later, sweaty and languid and absolutely wrung out, breathing hard.

liam uses one of their discarded t shirts to mop most of the mess between them, both eyeing the wet spot on the sheets with distaste. he discards the condom, kicking the lube off the bed and onto the floor. zayn spreads out on the bed, naked and loose, and looks over to see liam watching him, eyes drawn at half mass. 

“what are you looking at?” he asks after a beat. liam doesn’t answer, instead curling in close, pressing his nose into zayn’s neck.

his eyes flutter close for a second, and he welcomes sleep, can feel it toeing along the lines, waiting for zayn to succumb. he holds still, focuses on liam’s face, his birthmark on his neck, his eyelashes.

his muscles hurt, but not in the way zayn expects. he feels pulled apart and put back together.

  


-

 

zayn says _i chose you_ into liam’s skin what must be a hundred times, hoping liam believes him.

 

-

with liam, it is like living in a dream within a dream. zayn fades in and out of focus, unable to concentrate on anything in particular. they’ve almost never had this much time together, away from everyone and their iphones and their inability to keep their mouths shut, always half worried something will get back to his father; instead there is an unsettling amount of peace, of quiet, of undisturbed sex and lounging and blatant nakedness. zayn likes it. he just doesn’t know what to do with it.

some mornings they make breakfast and then snort lines by noon, giddy and fucked up until they pass out by late evening. zayn generally likes smoking more, something that keeps him calm, keeps his anxiety at bay, but liam has a guilty indulgence for well cut cocaine, and the urge to please him is too good to pass up.

he’s lost most of the nervous insecurity of his youth, always afraid of a misstep, or saying the wrong thing when they were in school. even when liam smiled, he hesitated.

age suits him, zayn thinks. liam is a golden boy from birth, the perfect ideal of an inheritance child, blonde haired and brown eyed and lovely, with a powerful last name and an company waiting for him when he was of age. liam is the ideal. he’s grown into his body, his muscles well formed and effortless, his tan easy and even among his skin, smile stark and bright against it. he tastes like sex and ocean salt. zayn never wants it to end.

 

 

-

 

louis and harry arrive one morning, from the sound of the racket being made. zayn rises late, finding everyone at the breakfast table. louis is already nursing a drink, despite being before eleven, his sunglasses perched up on his head, his hair longer than zayn’s seen it in recent years.

louis stands up, and they hug, clapping each other soundly on the back. for some reason, it feels like a warning. zayn perks, wishing he wasn’t wearing just a t shirt and pants. the last time he’d seen louis truly, besides in lectures, was when they’d had a row outside louis’ flat.

he’s the picture of a yacht club advert, if yacht club members were also rockstar offspring, with his neatly folded navy blue trousers and his slouchy, purposely holed white t shirt, a cartier cuff fitted on his wrist next to his bulgaria watch and a dirty yarn bracelet. what a prat.

 

“zayn,” louis nods, smirking. he’s playing with his fruit salad, part of the breakfast package liam orders every morning when he doesn’t want to cook. “looking well.”

“not really, mate. haven’t shaved in ages or done anything productive all week. proper cave man now,” zayn jokes, sliding in the chair across from him.  

“where’s your other half? assuming he’s here, isn’t he?” zayn asks, mostly because he knows it annoys louis to refer to harry as anything other than just a friend. louis will come out of the closet only when zayn will, which is to say, never.

“s’not my bloody job to watch over him,” louis doesn’t even blink, rolling his eyes as he continues to banter in that way that him and liam always seem to be doing.

liam answers for him: “he’s paying the cab and getting the luggage, lou’s never been great help in that department.”

“it’s going to be an epic lads weekend, i think,” louis smiles, “i made a special trip out to another village just for some blunts and a fresh cut for you, li."

“lou,” liam groans, pressing his face in his hand, but zayn can tell he’s smiling, “you spoil me.”

“anything for you, princess,” it always takes a moment for zayn to adjust to the way louis talks: in trip wires and tricks and zayn can’t help but stifle a laugh behind his orange juice. classic tomlinson. louis smiles brightly, too mischievous and giddy for zayn to ever fully anticipate.

harry is mostly what zayn remembers from school: wild, dark curly hair, a narrow face with wide, intense looking eyes, a lanky, waifish build. he’s got a slight french lisp, talking incredibly slowly like he’s still just learned english. zayn still wonders what louis has seen in harry: louis has always gone after those who are similar to him; who crash and burn and can never be held down or told no. harry is not like that. zayn doesn’t know what he is like, exactly, but he is not that.

harry orbits around louis, smiling softly, knobbly knees knocking into each other when he sits down, thin torso draped a in sheer white t shirt. zayn’s heard of harry’s legacy, of the long history of bourgeois lineage harry was born into, the kind zayn’s father could only dream of being able to claim. he’s heard about harry’s family, or more distinctly, the lack of it. harry has next to no one. zayn wonders if that is freeing.

zayn is drunk by noon, curled up on the patio, laughing childishly at liam and louis’ antics. it feels like home.

 

-

  


later, liam, the most sober of them, calls for the cook that use to cater to the villa when his mother frequented here often, and dinner starts to turn into an actual prospect. zayn can’t remember the last time he actually ate something that wasn’t doused in alcohol or accompanied by a cigarette.

harry had fucked off for a nap ages ago, sighting travel sickness. louis disappeared into town, no doubt looking for trouble.

“hey,” zayn finds liam on the front porch, nursing a scotch and watching the waves. “alright?”

“yeah,” liam nods distractedly, his brows drawn together. “i think there is something lou’s not telling me, though. he’s been very secretive.”

zayn feels his gut churn, “what do ya think it’s about?”

liam shrugs, “dunno. something is up between him and harry, though. louis’ probably fucked up, as per usual,” liam smiles sourly, “he can never keep it in his pants.”

“still don’t understand why they’re even together,” zayn admits honestly, “or if louis even considers himself in a relationship.”

“yeah, who fucking knows,” liam sighs, taking a sip, savouring it. zayn cringes at what that must taste like in his mouth. liam wipes the back of his mouth with his hand, “harry’s dropped some weight, though. looks poorly.”

“doesn’t he model, though? thought they all looked like that.”

liam laughs, “yeah, suppose they do. i don’t know. it makes me uneasy, when people look that unhealthy. naturally, louis doesn’t even notice.”

“glad you’re so invested in their lives, li,” zayn teases, wrapping an arm around his shoulder and pulling him in close. liam smells like liquor and salt and sand. zayn teases, but he understands, too: louis is liam’s brother the way niall is zayn’s. when you’re born into a bubble with everyone watching, those few people who know all the horrid bits about you and still love you are the ones you keep around no matter what.

“oh shut up, you prick,” liam says, though it’s muffled by his face being pressed in zayn’s neck. “dinner should be served soon.”

 

-

 

harry doesn’t even show up, opting that he’s too tired and doesn’t feel like eating. louis, in true louis fashion, throws a minor tantrum. “this is just like him to ruin a proper evening,” he snarls, swirling the contents of his wine glass.

“chill out, mate,” liam says, ever the pacifier.

louis looks at him with narrowed eyes, “i’m very chilled, thanks,” he snips, to which liam rolls his eyes. louis, always undeterred until he has his way, tips the legs of his chair back as he shouts, “oi, harry! how about you don’t hide out in your room and join us.”

“louis,” liam starts, fingers clutching his fork, “just leave it. who cares.

“i fucking do,” he retaliates, and then he sighs, blowing his fringe out of his eyes disinteresting, “should have never brought him along.”

this is precisely when harry comes into the dining area. louis always had impeccable timing.

he has the sort of expression on his face zayn has only seen on a few people: calmly furious, held together with his arms wrapped around his middle and expression guarded, angry. he doesn’t make a move, his cheekbones highlighted by the last remnants of sunset outside.

zayn sees now that harry is quite thin, but it’s not just the litheness of being a french student-cum-model, but an aura of sickness surrounding him. his eyes, which were already quite large before, now look bug eyed, doll like.

“i’m sorry for spoiling your evening, but i don’t feel very well,” harry directs this towards liam, who sits at the head of the table like it matters to liam at all. liam shrugs helplessly. zayn sighs. he needs another drink if he’s going to sit and watch this train wreck happen.

“you’re full of shit, hazza. sit down and eat with us,” louis’ words exact and cruel, the way he demands things a work of art. harry flushes, wings of pink apparent on his pale face.

“i don’t feel well,” harry repeats, and it sounds like a broken record that zayn has heard over and over again; a well told, easy lie.

louis rolls his eyes like harry’s wellbeing is of no importance to him, “don’t ruin this night for me. come sit down,” he all but orders.

harry stands there for a moment, and no one says anything, the table fallen silent. finally, he walks over to the table, pulling out the chair across from louis harshly enough that it scrapes against the floor and slumping down into the seat, glaring.

louis shrugs, already changing his attention back to liam, picking up their discussion about their upcoming spring lectures and if they’ll even bother making an appearance at half the charity events they were invited to after christmas.

“wine?” zayn asks, passing him a large, helpful serving of rose. harry nods, cheeks still bright pink, taking the glass and nearly draining the whole cup. zayn refills it, figuring it couldn’t hurt to loosen him up. he’s wound tight, his shoulders drawn up like he’s nervous.

they begin to drink again, picking up where they left off this afternoon, and harry turns from flushed with embarrassment and anger to pink cheeked from the four glasses of wine he’s consumed in the last half hour. louis produces a joint at some point, lighting it as zayn fingers his pockets for a cigarette, feeling loose limbed and sated, warm. he knows he’s drunk, he just doesn’t really care much.

liam moves them out onto the beach as dusk falls, walking ahead with louis, secretive like they’ve always been throughout school. zayn doesn’t really feel the sting of jealousy, though it’s there: liam puts up with louis for reasons he’ll probably never understand. louis is the type of person who burns through people who think they want him. liam will probably never see that.

“there was a wedding invite in louis’ mailbox before we left,” harry’s voice comes near his left, spooking zayn.

fuck. “look, harry – “ zayn starts, but harry shakes his head, curls flopping around his face.

“i hid it. i reckon that was probably best left alone until after spain.”

“you’re brilliant, you know,” zayn laughs, wrapping an arm around harry’s neck and pulling him close, ruffling his curls like they’ve always been mates. harry giggles, drunk, pulling away, his fingers feeling like skinny piano keys, cold and porcelain.

“don’t know about that,” harry smiles, “you better be careful, though. it won’t be long until louis figures out what liam does and doesn’t know,” harry says, and when he sees zayn’s expression, he elaborates, “liam told me you chose him in this great declaration of love. quite a novel idea, really. you could write a book.”

there’s pieces of louis dripping in harry’s speech. zayn rolls his eyes, “louis won’t say anything. i have plenty of dirt on him about other things – “

“what, like when he cheated on his a levels? or all the times he’s cheated on me? ” harry cuts off, but his voice is not unkind, just curious, “save it, i know. he’s shameless about it. even met a friend of his, eleanor. like i don’t know.”

“jesus, harry,” zayn curses, lighting another cigarette. he’ll need better leverage. “i’m a hypocrite, but i don’t think i could handle liam cheating on me, being with other blokes. or birds.”

“that’s awfully hypocritical, yeah,” harry laughs, then he shrugs like it’s the obvious thing in the world, “but that’s the territory that comes with lou. can’t tame a wild heart, can you?”

harry’s words stay with zayn a long time after that, as they catch up with the other boys, heads together like they’ve been salacious and troublesome. they all sit on the pier, sharing lines between the four of them that louis has divvied up using one of his gold cards and a borrowed chanel compact mirror. zayn can feel his stare, louis’ cold blue eyes drilling holes into the side of his skull, but he doesn’t give him the satisfaction of returning it, instead favouring the ocean view instead. it’s so dark out the water looks black, impressive, powerful.

the arguing doesn’t start again until they’re nearly back to the house. zayn doesn’t hear exactly what starts it but then it’s like a firework being light too close to his face: harry spinning out of louis’ reach, their voices turning from jovial to angry, harsh, cathartic and grating against zayn’s ears.

“i told you not to mention her while we were here,” harry shouts, eyes bright even in the dark. liam curses under his breath as louis backs up as if he’s rearing for a fight.

“i don’t know what happened to your pretty little head that made you think i do anything you tell me do,” louis snarls, face pinched, nose red. “you’re a bloody idiot.”

“fuck you,” harry shouts, whirling around, “you don’t have to be such an absolute prick to me every time i decide i’m not going to be your fucking doormat, lou.”

“alright, go on, then, tell me: what do you propose i should do?”

“i’ve told you _a million fucking times_ ,” harry says, shaking his head like he’s about to burst from all the tension building, the veins in his neck throbbing. zayn and liam catch up to them, and he sees louis curse under his breath, slamming his fist into an old driftwood post after harry mutters something mutinously to him, too quiet for zayn to hear.

harry reaches for him then, pulling louis’ fist back to look at the damage at the same time that louis’ other hand comes out, pushing harry away from him, sending him stumbling back into the sand. when he stands back up, his nose is bleeding, his fingers covered in blood. it looks like burgundy coloured honey as it coats his long fingers.

zayn feels himself shouting before he realises it’s him: it feels like an out of body experience for a moment, like he’s more fucked up than he previously thought. “fuck, louis, stop being such a fucking arse.”

he grabs harry by his bony shoulders and pushes him away from louis gently, even though harry is still making fantastic use of his vocabulary, hurling insults at louis as they near the beach. he sees liam pull louis up the stairs to the villa, louis’ voice growing hoarse as he tries to compete with the sound of the ocean thundering louder as they get closer to it.

zayn sits down, bum firmly in the sand, apparently drunker than he thought. he pulls harry down next to him, inspecting the blood dripping down his face at an alarming rate, staining his mouth, teeth and hands. he’s an absolute fucking mess. zayn didn’t even see louis hit him.

“it’s just a nosebleed,” harry explains, blood bubbling from his mouth, “it wasn’t lou. sometimes when i get too emotional, they happen.”

“fuck, i thought he fucking hit you,” zayn curses, “he’s a prick, you know that.”

harry nods, wiping his nose and smearing it onto his cheek like a child. he looks like he could fit inside zayn’s palms, like he could fold him up into a cup. zayn can sense the build up inside of harry, and it doesn’t surprising when a fat tear falls down his face, then followed by others, creating rivers among the blood. christ, he’s a sight. harry is stiff and cold, pulling away from zayn’s hand and rubbing his eyes.

he could just leave, say fuck it and go to bed to sleep off what is going to be a massive hangover. he could say good luck, harry styles, you right idiot, you choose louis, and all that comes with him, all the messy, horrible things that are included. it would easy. he’s done it before, without a second thought. zayn could surrender to his selfishness, smoke a blunt, fall asleep, and deal with this shit later.

but zayn does not forget the hospital room in teddington, and harry, a kid he’d spoken maybe two words to, was there for him. when his world had been coming to an end, when he lost liam, when he thought it would be the last time he’d ever see him, when nothing was ever going to be okay again; harry had taken zayn’s hand, without speaking, and said, it’s alright, i’m right here.

you don’t forget that kind of shit. zayn can’t.

zayn pulls at him again, rougher this time, their mismatch of bones almost resembling a hug.

“i wish i had good reason to why i stay with louis,” harry murmurs, voice wet, “but i don’t, really.”

“look,” zayn says, feeling fiercely protective of louis, his brother since they’ve been children. “louis, he’s had his fair share of  shit happen to him. didn’t have it easy, right? doesn’t really know the value of friendship, or relationships. but he keeps you round, doesn’t he?"

“yeah. i’m a warm mouth,” harry spits a puddle of blood into the sand.

“it’s not like that, louis could get that anywhere, right? he’s proper famous, don’t ask me why,” zayn shrugs, grateful harry’s stopped crying, “must be a reason.”

harry nods, staring intently out into the waves, “i think i’m ill.”

“liam said he thought something might be wrong,” zayn says carefully, “what’s the problem, then?”

“dunno. i just know that if i tell louis, he’ll think i won’t be able to keep up with him,” harry admits, toes digging into the sand, “if i could go home to france for a little bit, i think it would help. but louis refuses to go. and i know if i leave...”

zayn doesn’t have any advice; harry’s got most of louis tricks figured out. he doesn’t say anything.

harry laughs mirthlessly to himself, shrugging, hands rubbing against his bony arms, “i’m fucking tired.”

“let’s get you to bed, then -” zayn knows that isn’t what he means, but nonetheless he moves to stand up. harry hand shoots up, clutching his wrist. zayn knows he must feel the scar tissue there, but he doesn’t let go.

“i’m not sleeping near him,” he murmurs, head down, picking at the pebbles. “he’s angry with me.”

“come on, you can bunk with me.” zayn picks harry up by the armpits and hauls him to his feet. zayn thinks he’s never seen a person look so unearthly, so utterly ethereal. harry glows, truly does, and even in the crisp wind and darkness, he is as bright and strange as he always has been.

“liam won’t mind?” harry asks.

zayn shakes his head. “consider it sorted.”

harry looks confused. his cheeks turn a faint pink when the wind takes a harsh turn, but zayn doesn’t feel he needs much more of an explanation than that. he doesn’t even know if he could produce one, everything he and liam are jumbled and messy inside his brain.

 

-

 

zayn directs harry to the first bedroom on the right and closes the door. “right,” he says awkwardly, “clean yourself up.”

when he returns from the loo, wearing pyjamas and his teeth brushed, harry is a curled ball on the farthest side of the bed, face clean of any blood. he’s not asleep. the moonlight makes the turquoise walls wraithlike and iridescent, as if they’re inside the belly of a river.

as zayn settles, harry turns around to face him. he looks fucked up, faded, with his lip bitten between his teeth. his hands reach and pull zayn’s arm and his fingers press against the scar there, outlining it along zayn’s wrist.

“what happened?” harry’s voice is muted like he’s buried underneath layers of sand.

“my father pressed my wrists against the hob while it was on when i was a kid,” zany says bluntly. he’s not used to people asking where his scars come from. most people have an idea, and if they don’t, they pretend they know. it suits zayn fine. means he doesn’t have to explain much.

harry frowns, like that isn’t the story he wanted to hear. it’s almost like the universe made him this beautiful on purpose just to spite everyone else. zayn wouldn’t be surprised. “why would he do that?”

zayn nearly laughs, even though there’s no humour behind it, “mate, i don’t know how many times i’ve asked myself that same question. he wants me to be better, i guess. better than he was. his dad was rough with him, too. but i don’t actually know.”

“sometimes,” harry starts slowly, fingers slipping away from zayn’s hand. “sometimes, people just don’t love other people properly. and there is just no other answer.”

“go to sleep, harry,” is all zayn can think of say in return. he can feel himself come down from his high, adrenaline trickling out of him like a slow dripping faucet.

the stars sing them to sleep as zayn waits until harry is unconscious, lungs heavy and body drifting between dreams. zayn must still be high, because when he startles awake an hour later, they’re holding hands.

 

-

 

the sun is high up in the middle of the sky by the end of the week. It’s barely noon, but it’s already so warm that sweat sits in the corners of his back and his t-shirt sticks to his shoulders. it’s unusual weather for late december. zayn doesn’t mind.

louis and harry are sprawled on the front deck, harry eclipsed in shade, louis a bronze god, absorbing as much sunlight as he is reflecting it. zayn watches louis reach up to tug on one of harry’s curls playfully; harry retaliates by pressing fingers into louis high cheek bones and freckled skin. he nurses a cup of coffee and a cigarette, trying to blink sunshine out of his eyes.

he’ll never really comprehend why it is that they bicker, even when it’s harmless banter, because that has to be exhausting. and he’s nowhere near grasping how magnetic two people can truly be; when louis shifts, harry rotates, like they are both orbiting each other. he’s not sure they even realize they’re doing it.

the energy that surrounds them is powerful and draining. both are fine on their own, zayn knows, but he’s learned quick the best way to be around them together is be as intoxicated as he possibly get himself.

harry is youthful, clingy and soft; soulful and innocent. zayn has a hard time understanding what it is about him that keeps louis so enraptured. harry may be old money, but he lacks the sophistication, the experience of someone in their usual circle, like he’s been kept away from their lifestyle on purpose. it’s as if he’d spit out his silver spoon.

zayn joins liam on one of the lounge chairs on the deck as he reads the great gatsby, nursing a drink. the sun illuminates liam’s blonde hair, and his cheeks shine with a resplendent flush, and zayn thinks, this must be happiness. he is stupid with this feeling.

 

-

 

they’re stoned when it happens. it was one of the last days before louis was to fly back to spend christmas eve in kensington with louis’ family; harry following the same day to see some of his friends from paris that were flying in that day, too. zayn had planned on going back; after all, he didn’t celebrate christmas. he wasn’t needed until new years.

harry’s giggling, tucked underneath louis’ arm, when he starts to cough, his whole body shuddering with it. he pushes louis’ arm off of him, coughing again, deep and throaty, pushing zayn out of his faded reverie. they fall silent for a singular moment, where all is still, as harry draws his hand away from his mouth, and it’s covered in blood.

the world shifts back into motion again, and zayn is having trouble keeping up. louis pushes harry’s hand back to his mouth as blood streams steadily out his nose, dripping down his chin at a speed zayn has never seen before, and he’s had his fair share of nose bleeds. liam stands up first, pulling harry with him, in the bathroom.

the door slams behind them, louis and zayn sitting there on the living room floor with a bong between them, shoulders slumped.

“fuck,” louis says slowly, his eyes red and barely open. zayn watches his wearily as his whole face scrunches up, and zayn thinks distantly, fuck, he’s going to cry. he doesn’t. instead he does the second best thing, stand up and knocking over a couple of chairs, kicking the last one out of his way as he marches to the bathroom, pounding at the door.

zayn can hear the sound of harry’s voice, upset and choking on his own spit, as inexplicably apologises to louis – for what reason, only god knows; zayn thinks. liam pushes louis out again, closing the door. zayn thinks hears the lock switch, and louis leans against for a moment, foot kicking at it. he leaves a moment later, down the steps and on toward the beach. zayn does not follow him.

he does, however, right the furniture louis threw around, and puts the bong on the kitchen table, half a bowl still ready to be smoked. later, he thinks. he waits a while, until he can hear the bath running. all is silent when he leans up against the door.

it’s not locked like he believed, because he tries the knob out of curiosity. the bath is running, steam starting to fill the room, as zayn peeks inside. he spots harry’s bloody white shirt, a alexander mcqueen piece now ruined on the floor. he looks up, and watches as harry reaches for liam’s jaw with his red stained hands, and pulls him down for a kiss.

zayn doesn’t know how long he stands there, before he pulls the door shut again. it clicks shut, silently against the sound of the tub, heard by no one except him.

he smokes the rest of that bowl then, at the table, surrounded by gucci watches and assorted cufflinks, by tom ford suit jackets carelessly thrown over the back of the chair, of premium aged wine half drank and left out, forgotten. he thinks about the way liam had leaned into the kiss, had gripped harry’s elbow; the way harry’s blood was on liam’s chin, his teeth.

later that night, long after louis has returned and disappeared with harry into their bedroom, long hand curled around his shoulder, circling him like a haughty cat, liam sits in the front terrace with zayn, one last drink in hand. they’re quiet, for a while, lost in thought. zayn feels as if something inside of him has settled. he feels peaceful.

 _now we’re even_.

it was a feeling zayn had never had no other time in his life, and what liam had said all those days ago, made sense. because apologies, between them, they don’t matter. talk is cheap. how many times zayn has been told that – by his father, his uncles, his friends. talk is cheap. now, he gets it. anything liam says will never burn the sight of harry wrapped up in his arms out of zayn’s brain.

 _okay_ , zayn thinks. _okay_.

zayn feels this acceptance, this realisation so suddenly that he reaches over and grips liam’s hand as hard as he can. liam looks to him, head tilted, and he smiles. his front teeth are tinged pink.

  


-

  


“where’s liam gone off to?” zayn asks louis that next morning, because he’d woken up alone. zayn would be lying if he didn’t then search for harry, who he found curled up on the living room couch having a kip.

louis pauses from his phone, sunglasses perched on his head. he squints for a moment, thinking. “said he went into town for something. would return later.”

“takes that long?” zayn inquires. his question is not satisfied with a response; louis has already moved his attention to trying to wake harry in time for their car.

 

-

 

the phone rings before liam returns from town. “zayn,” louis hands him his iphone, nearly chucking it at him. “it’s niall." 

there’s a curious look in his eyes as he hands over the phone. “mate, hey, what’s – ”

“why the bloody hell aren’t you answering your other phone? doniya is worried, she’s been trying to call you – “

“what?” zayn interrupts, feeling the bottom of his stomach drop. he’s already hung over from the night before, and his legs are sore from fucking liam this morning; these are simply, easy hurts that he invites. news from his family is something he does not want. that type of pain is never welcome. “what’s happened?”

“s’your dad, mate,” niall says, like he’s out of breath, rushing to get words out, “he’s had a heart attack."

everything is a little bit of a blur after that. zayn is on the phone with all three of his sisters after that, refusing to answer any other phone calls from his other members of family. he turns on his blackberry to find dozens of missed calls and unanswered texts from his sisters and even one from his mother.

louis books him a ticket home on his ipad that leaves in three hours back to london. harry sits quietly, looking tired as he worries his bottom lip between his teeth. zayn throws clothes in his suitcase haphazardly, holding his phone like a life line. he needs liam to call, but his car is here, waiting, and he needs to get on that plane.

“i texted liam and explained to him what happened,” louis says as he nearly force feeds zayn a drink to settle his nerves, scotch running down his chin. “he’ll know what happened. he’ll understand.”

“i’ll wait for liam,” harry perks up, hands cupping each elbow, looking beautiful and sinful. zayn thinks snidely, _i bet you will. i bet you fucking will._

he is too tired to wring the boy’s neck, to force out what he did. he is too smart to ever bring it up in from of louis, a firework waiting always to be lit by accident.

harry kisses his cheek goodbye, and zayn grips the back of his neck, squeezing. a warning. he is his father’s son. he has always been his father’s son. harry pulls away, large eyes confused as he searches zayn’s face for something, anything. he looks petite, fragile.

“ _aurevoir_ , zayn,” harry whispers. he licks his lips self-consciously.

everything feels suddenly wrong  as louis shoves him into the backseat of their hired car and moves in next to him, tipping the driver for putting their bags in the boot.

zayn doesn’t want to move. he doesn’t want to leave. he doesn’t care – he doesn’t care if his father is lying somewhere dead in a bed somewhere; this is all wrong. this is not how the holiday was supposed to end. he needs to say good bye. he knows he’s to return to london and be reunited with his family and malia and it’ll be too soon, and he needs – well he needs liam.

he finds liam’s face in his mind, memories moving before his eyes like being submerged into a river, all the sounds and colours harsh and bright, blinding him, making him suffocate. he’s not breathing right. he can feel the water in his lungs. fuck. at one point, he starts to rub his hands together, nails digging into his skin. he only stops when louis pulls his fingers apart, cussing at him. his voice is a familiar lull, but it’s not enough to pull zayn out of his head.

zayn half-hopes his father is dead before he boards his plane.

 

-

 

zayn feels crushed underneath his uncle’s hands as they guide him from the entrance up to the hall his father is in. everything is moving so fast; the lights abrasive and harsh. he feels people pass him as if he is not the one actually moving. zayn, like so many other times in his life, lets himself be guided.

he feels as if he is watching the world from tinted glass, safe from his heart and his brain and the world. waliyah holds his hand as they make their way into the correct ward. she is not crying, her face silent and drawn. the smell is familiar and zayn thinks back on what it reminds him of before it comes to him, a feeling of dread filling his gut. it was a frequent smell of his childhood. boys fall down a lot, break their bones, bruise their bodies. at least that is what his mother always said.

his family is sitting outside the room, the curtain drawn shut and keeping his father from his line of sight. his mother reaches up to him, safe and bird-like in his arms, her skin thin like paper, like it could tear underneath zayn’s fingers. this is the woman who raised zayn for years. there is no recognition in her touch. only phantoms of memories of what it used to feel like.

he feels bothered, itchy. he wants this to all be a dream. he knows it’s not. something heavy blooms inside of him.

“his doctor have told us that there is not much to do at this point,” his mother says softly, her hand holding his wrist for a moment like he’s a little boy again and she wants his attention. “your sisters have already said goodbye. your turn.”

his mother sits back down to finish her magazine, not a long brown hair out of place, her brow perfectly arched.

for a moment, zayn’s world kind of stops. he has a hard time understand that this is it. it should feel like the end, but it doesn’t. it feels like a beginning, something so bright and so strange zayn not dare touch it. he hesitates, feeling himself start to cry. he swallows it though, thick in his throat, shoulders back.

his papa. his father. he only wanted zayn to be better. zayn wonders if he thinks he’s succeeded. he wonders, distantly what he was ever scared for. his father is human. it is so simple and so astounding it nearly suffocates him. everything dies, zayn realizes. everyone dies, or is in a habit of dying.

nothing is permanent: not the marks on zayn’s back, not the scars on his soul. deep down, zayn knows this. he feels incredibly strong and absolutely weak at the same time in this waiting room, the sound of bodies moving around him. he wishes he could tell liam the truth, because he would say, everything i ever did was for us. i swear to god, all i ever wanted was you.

he will, someday. and he knows liam will understand in time. he knows it will all make sense. liam believes good things happen for a reason. zayn wants to believe that, too.

outside, it is snowing for the first time in years in london, and it so beautiful. it reminds him of those lazy, horribly boring christmas’s he spent with liam in derbyshire when they were kids, with fake snow in his hair and skates wrapped around his shoulder.

it’s always been liam, zayn knows. he closes his eyes as he steps into the hospital room, the machines whirring and clicking around him. he ignores it, instead imaging the sound of liam’s cello: ongoing, concise, beautiful – it fills zayn’s ears, until everything is so loud he can’t hear a thing.

his father is lying there, a machine breathing for him. he is small in death.

then.

 _go on_ , the liam in his head urges.

zayn sits down and blinks past his anger.

 

-

 

 

 

 


	5. niall

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This story contains toxic relationships that are unhealthy and abusive and manipulative. This chapter specifically deals with grief and depression, which can be triggering and should heed caution, as it relates to a death of a oc family member. Unhealthy family dynamics, as well as abuse between parent-child are mentioned, rather than explicitly depicted in this story.
> 
> Moreover, there is a few scenes between niall/gemma, and those can be read as power-plays, but is very subtle and can be ignored. I'd say at this point it is fairly obvious that this chapter will be rife with alcohol, drugs, unhealthy coping mechanisms and generally poor behavior.

summer 2013 / spring 2014

niall doesn’t remember what annie looked like when she was born. but he knows what she looked like when she died.

it’s not easy being twins, really. everyone wants to put you in the same pair and match your clothes and always asks the mundane, what does fraternal mean again? birthdays are shared, presents from distant relatives are usually unisex or duplicates of each other. there is always a gender role too, as in, annie must like pink and niall must like blue. they shared the same nose and the same blue eyes and niall was convinced sometimes they dreamed the same dream.

annie was a fiery little sprite, with mud under her fingernails and between her toes, making tiaras out of flowers and weeds. niall usually followed her lead.

their estate just outside of dublin had more bedrooms than they really could count, strange staircases and decadent pieces of artwork his ancestors brought back from all over the world. none of this impressed, them, growing up, as annie would think up massive games of hide-and-seek between giant stone fireplaces, servants quarters, and stuffy drawings rooms. it was as if his childhood was one giant game of pretend.

she was his sister, his best friend, and the only girl in the world that ever held his attention. with her long red hair, freckles marring every inch of her skin, and bright blue eyes, annie was a shining star in a city full of fog and gloom: she danced instead of walked, and sang instead spoke and always, always, had something witty to say.

he tries to explain all  of this at a podium in front of a church full of people, all mourning a girl only he really knew. he wishes it were appropriate to point that out; that only he could know her the way she ought to be known. niall feels raw and broken and so fucking angry it makes his whole body hurt. no one loved annie like niall loved annie.

his mouth tastes like salt and tears as his voice shakes around his speech. he knows, in the cruelest twist of irony, that in a situation like this annie would rise to the occasion and carry on. she would peel the speech clutched between her brother’s fingers and read it with bravado; she would take niall into her arms and hold on as tightly as she could, pretending not to see him cry. niall knows she would do this, he knows it so well he can almost taste it -

his mother is sitting in the front row, face drawn and withered like a tree that’s lost all its leaves, exhausted by the tantrum she threw this morning before the funeral. niall can’t look at her, can’t look at the way his father grieves slowly, like he was unravelling from his skin. he’s supposed to be wearing forest green and maroon, his school colors as stands with his mates for their leaving ceremony, the celebration at the end of their final year at school.

instead, he’s wearing black tom ford, and he’s talking nonsense about his dead sister to a hundred people who only knew half of her.

-

survivor’s guilt works like this for niall: months later, when everyone resumes going on with their lives, niall still wakes up in the middle of the night drenched in his own sweat. he touches his face to find it wet with tears, and he feels like he might puke whatever he’s eaten that day. everyone always tell you to call them after something awful happens, but niall that’s not what they really mean: so he doesn’t call. he sits in his bathroom with his forehead against his toilet bowl and he thinks this can’t be real, this isn’t real, wake me up, get me out of this, i can’t do this.

it’s worse when he realises he can do this. that he has to. this is real life, and he has no other choice but to go through it.

when he closes his eyes he sees his sister’s face upside down; her shoulder pinned underneath the crunched side of the car, her seatbelt nearly decapitating her. annie had blinked once, twice, looking at niall for a moment. maybe there was a smile; but probably not. niall held her hand tightly in his when she took her last breath, as her lungs stuttered to stillness after, her hair matted dark red with blood and dirt.

she had died scared and cold. she did not die alone.

the emergency responders hadn’t found them for fifteen minutes after the car had rolled into the bog. when they tried to cut her out of the car, niall refused to let go of her hand.

he just wanted her to wake up. _annie, please_ , he had screamed, _wake up, annie don’t leave me, annie don’t go, i need you, i need you, i love you, annie listen to me, wake up_ -

-

 

he sleeps most of may. he doesn’t go home back to ireland like he usually does after school lets out for summer holiday, instead opting to stay in their chelsea home in london. it’s quiet, here. every interaction with his mum and his da are heavy, sinking niall deeper and deeper into his own brain. he stops answering their calls after a while, because he can hear the stiffness in their tongues, their dread cutting like teeth. they speak too much like home, like annie used to, stubborn with her accent.

then, after a while, they stop calling.

everyone does. niall is good at being friends with nearly everyone and always have a mate or two with him wherever he goes – but now, now he struggles to even hold a conversation with anyone. the pressure to communicate is crippling, daunting. outside has never been scary. now niall can’t get out of bed.

he hasn’t seen zayn or liam in ages. this would bother him, if he could remember to be bothered about anything at all.

 

 

-

 

niall books a flight to greece on a whim instead of spending more time in chelsea. summers in london have never been his favourite; not when he had a chance to go to new york city, or spend time rolling around in the dirt at home in ireland, or maybe take a trip to somewhere in southern europe, hot and oblivious like he likes. london is muted and gray and polluted even with the sun; it makes niall cough and cringe.

he doesn’t know what exactly he’ll find in greece, but he can’t stand another minute in this house. he wants to break all the tabletops, the dishes, just to hear the sound. he wants to rip up all the velvet couches, smash all the dominican cigars. he doesn’t. he lives stunted, choking, in silence.

this is the truth: niall is nothing without annie, and he knows this, and it stings. they were born equal each other, two parts of one whole. they shared space before they even entered the world. they were meant to leave it the same way. everything feels unnatural. breathing is laborious.

he needs her. he’s always needed her: niall is honest enough with himself to know he’s never been the individual. he’s never need to wave his flag of independence around, marching to his own beat: annie had always done that for him, and he was happy to follow her trail blazing. his whole life before now had been planned out for him, and fate shouldn’t be able to just cease to exist. he’s lost his footing.

sometimes he doesn’t even recognise who he is, or what he likes. annie was going to become heir to the family business so niall could go to school for music production. annie was going to shoulder the responsibility of being a horan, between networking families and pulling together events and putting on a beautiful face to keep their name relevant. this all falls of niall now. he doesn’t want it.

they were going to grow old together. now annie is eighteen forever. she’ll never age another day.

niall holds his life in his hands, broken and in separate, unrelated pieces. nothing is fair or good anymore. nothing is worth shit.

 

-

 

it’s quiet in santorini. he could have gone to mykonos or maybe hid out in athens, but he’s never been able to resist this place given the chance. the locals are friendly and the oceans are endless and the food is decent. mostly he walks around a lot by himself, or sleeps in till evening. he’s shut off his phone and it lies useless underneath his bed.

niall sees a familiar face on a beach one night when the moon is a white die against the black top of an endless ocean. he nearly turns the other way, ready to get away from anyone he knows, but she’s beautiful, and she’s looking at him. he can’t look away. she splits away from her small group of friends and walks up to him slowly like it’s some kind important reunion. niall’s maybe said two words this girl in real life, but right now he doesn’t care.

“well look at you, horan,” her voice is like velvet, a sound niall could get drunk on. she saunters up in niall’s space, filling all the crevices. he can’t help but scrutinize her movements, the way the light from fire looks like it’s licking her limbs. she has long, messy dark tresses for hair, like she rolled right out of the sea. her singlet strap has slipped down on her tanned shoulder. she would be too bright for niall in london. she would smile too much. “someone’s grown up properly, haven’t they.”

“could say the same about yourself,” niall smiles, then he shrugs, “but i reckon you were just as fit when i was fifteen as you are now.”

gemma laughs, head tipped back, her straight white teeth a pearly gleam in the darkness. “you’re too smooth, niall.”

“please,” niall shakes his head, “take a walk with me.”

she does.

 

her body is fluid like a flame on top of him later, all petite curves and perfect thinness. her hair gets in his mouth, and it tastes likes salt and sand, and he wants more. he fucks her in his rented villa, forehead tucked into her neck. she whispers his name over and over again like she’s trying to memorise it, hand clutching the hair on the back of his neck like a possession.

“lets pretend we’ve never met,” he whispers, and she nods, already forgetting his name on her mouth.

she lets him be lost. she lets him be anyone else but who he is. he could never ask for anything else.

 

-

 

he’s alone in the morning. he eyes the indigo of the ocean, the crisp white of the clouds against an endless backdrop of light blue, the perfect weather to go sailing, or have a lie about on the beach. instead he pulls the sheet over his head and sleeps until it’s dark again.

 

-

 

he finds her on the beach a few nights later after a day of drinking by himself. niall isn’t sure if he sought her out or if it was accidentally on purpose but gemma doesn’t ask. instead she pulls her hair away from her shoulders, putting a pill on her tongue and kissing niall with it, making him swallowing it. she touches him like he’s gold and fragile, her fingertips only a ghost against his body. she touches him like she’s known him forever. they trip out on the beach, dancing along in the sand to no music until night fades and the sky turns a milky pink.

they fuck to the tune of a sunrise. they don’t use names, just mouths. her skin tastes like want, like shameless want.

he thinks, _maybe i can just disappear_. and he thinks, _maybe i’m just dust and sand and air_. gemma puts her lips onto his neck and he doesn’t think at all.

 

-

 

 

it’s the longest he’s been out of touch with anyone. when he and his sister went to their respective private schools, his phone was always full of text messages and emails and photos of weird shit she’d found on one of her blogs for him to look at. he always called her during  breakfast so she could tell him about what she was going to do that day. they never went without talking to each other. niall always felt like he never truly needed friends, though he loved his boys. he always had his sister, and she understood him better than anything.

even though athletics came natural, music was like a secret sibling between them. there was a constant stream of music from her room at home, and they’d smoke on the floor of her bathroom with the their ears pressed against the bass, eyes closed. annie used to spread eagle against the tile, moving her limbs back and forth like she was making a snow angel, eyes closed. sometimes they’d play the same song over and over for hours, trying to hide inside of it.

annie liked it when niall would sing to her. niall would play guitar and he would sing rhymes and limericks and cover other artist’s songs, sometimes dabbling in his own, hesitant music. niall never sung to anyone else, never bothered enough to really make an effort. annie used to roll her eyes and elbow him roughly and say, stop messing about and play a proper tune, nialler.

it’s crippling to think of her in the past tense. he doesn’t know what else to do.

annie was the good looking twin. she was pure irish beauty, with a body of an athlete and a spirit that spit fire, annie was the kind of girl that just didn’t take shit. she was ambitious and polite and sociable and her laugh filled up an entire room with sound. she was smart, certainly smarter than niall. she was the child that was going somewhere – that would run the company and bring the brewery to new places and innovate it. she was the child that took life by the reigns and showed no mercy.

his parents are left with niall. the artistic child. the soft one. his parents look at him and don’t know what to do, helpless with how little he’s excelled at.

annie and niall acted as if they never needed anyone else. it wasn’t uncommon in their world to spend most of their time with each other – when trust is short and money abundant, siblings are sometimes your only option. she never let on that it upset her, but sometimes niall would catch her with this look in her eye, when she realised she never really bothered making friends of her own at school. she spent a lot of her time alone. niall tried to explain that it didn’t matter, that she was better than all of them anyway.

but annie always and the same response. “it’s easier for you, ni,” she would say, her teeth worrying her lip. “you are very loveable.”

he hadn’t understood: he still doesn’t. he’ll never get to ask.

 

-

 

gemma has that socialite smell, like new perfume sent to her by the designer and ocean spray. her voice sounds like easy grace and champagne flutes chiming together. she’s pretty like sunlight. she’s not beautiful. niall finds this reassuring. beautiful things always end up destroying you.

they’re rolling around on the desk of her family’s boat, something she has tended to for her, though she assures him she knows how to moor it if it’s called for. he doesn’t really believe her, but there’s a crew on board, so it doesn’t really matter anyway.

santorini is a far away background from here. the boat lulls, rocking him into a hazy daydream. she licks the salt on the rim of her margarita, pink tongue swiping over her pretty mouth every few moments. she’s got one of those body chains on, the golden links hanging between her breasts and down to her belly button. he can’t stop staring.

“how is everything?” she asks, her face set in such a way that makes niall believe she’s genuinely curious. he can’t tell if she is or not.

he heaves a sigh, “suppose as good as it will be,” he shrugs, “its good not to see my last name in the paper anymore, though.”

“is it good?” gemma asks, “i think if i lost my brother i’d want him immortalised in every piece of writing every published again. or maybe i wouldn’t. maybe i would never be able to say his name.”

“some days you wake up and you want one. or neither. or both at the same time,” niall admits truthfully. when he takes a sip of his scotch, it burns the back of his throat. he has no idea why louis or zayn likes this shit.

gemma nods, eyes cast down before looking up again. “but what about you?”

niall shakes his head, confused, “what about me?”

she smiles like she pities him a little, “i asked how was everything. i mean just about you. not everyone else. not even annie.”

“maybe that’s all there is,” he says shortly.

gemma nods, “annie was my friend back in school.”

“you were probably one of the few,” he smiles, but it feels illicit and like he maybe shouldn’t be talking about her. “she was feisty.”

“god, was she ever,” gemma laughs, “sorry. she was, though. i was a couple years older and she made sure everyone knew just who she was.”

“you disappeared after you finished, though,” niall says, veering off the subject of his sister. it doesn’t feel right, like too much and not enough at the same time just mentioning her to someone he doesn’t know very well. maybe it’s good for him, but he’s not ready yet. “didn’t hear about you going to uni at all either.”

“yeah, i didn’t,” gemma says, “you don’t know much about my family, do you?”

niall shakes his head. it’s not very common not to know about a family like the styles, but he supposes it happens. going to a small school, knowing the same families that come around for polo and tea luncheons, they get old. it’s not often that there’s a new face in that mix.

“my mother didn’t care much for england. my father did business all around the world, but she was a french woman true to her blood. we spent most of our childhood in marrakech and tangier, and then sometimes in nice with my grandmother,” gemma says, smiling around her words. her memory sounds so fond niall wishes he could reach out and touch it, “she had a falling out with her sister in law a million years ago, and so they never spoke and we never went to london, never met any of my father’s associates or their families. not like the tight little group you’ve got yourself.”

“so what changed her mind, then? obviously you did your a levels at mary’s,” he asks. he feels himself bristle at the remark about the tight little group he’s got – that’s all he’s got; and even then, liam and louis haven’t called. zayn’s managed, but he sounds far away, busy with a million other things. he hasn’t seen any of his other friends properly since probably the funeral.

“nothing changed her mind,” gemma says frankly, “she died when i was seventeen. our grandmother thought it’d be best to get out of france. spread our wings, so to say.”

“that’s rough,” niall says, because he doesn’t know what else to say. harry has never so much as mentioned his parents at all. “and your father?”

“has a new family. i’ve got my inheritance, so it doesn’t matter. harry, too, when he’s of age,” she smiles at the mention of her brother. niall wonders why he’s never seen them together.

“is that all that matters to us? our trust funds and inheritances?” niall asks, but he can feel the giggle creep up his throat, his third drink creeping in slow and settling giddily in his stomach.

“that’s all we’ve been taught, babe,” gemma laughs, putting her drink down on the deck and crawling on her knees towards him, her dark hair tickling his chest, “who needs love?”

“not me,” niall says, his smile swallowed by her mouth as she straddles his hips.

 

-

 

gemma is pretty like sunshine. she likes tiffany necklaces and she never bothers with her hair as it tousles effortlessly down her back, a styles trademark niall is beginning to recognise. she has large dark eyes and a french woman’s thinness.

she is nothing, nothing like his sister. she is nothing like the girls niall who used to fuck in school. she is both sharp and bubbly, dainty and resilient. she’s got money, yeah, but she’s also got soul. niall is not some stepping ladder to get what she wants. he feels human around her, like he could have known her forever. he thinks this is all too cliche for him to deal with.

he wonders if he should tell her to fuck off now, before he gets too attached. he’s damaged goods. he feels too much. somedays he can’t get out of bed with the weight of the world. he’s lonely. he’s no longer that purposely oblivious, apathetic silver spoon cunt. he’s not easy.

he doesn’t want to, though. gemma makes him feel good, and that’s a luxury to niall now. she makes him laugh. she holds his hand. he shouldn’t be worried about getting too attached; he already is. he should be worried about when she’s going to realise it.

 

-

 

"why does it feel like the entire world doesn't exist?" gemma asks him with her lips pressed up against his ear. niall wipes the sleep out of his eyes, gemma's long tanned legs coming into view as he looks down the linear lines of her body to the windows outside. the sea is an impressive beacon of navy blue again the sunset. they must have fallen asleep earlier. he's been drunk since yesterday.

"because it doesn't," he murmurs, rolling over and pressing a knee in between her thighs, watching as she arches up into him. "s'just us, innit?"

she nods, their lips making a sound when they touch. it's an intimate sound, one niall doesn't hear often. she's not wearing a vest as his hands trailing down her body, his palm cupping the swell of her breast.

there's small tingling at the base of his spine as he kisses her, as one hand moves to the tangles of her hair; the other toying with the elastic of her flimsy lace panties. his fingers draw patterns over the soft fabric, watching her mouth part into a small smile when he brushes against her clit. he touches her like he's known her body for an eternity, like it is an extension of him.

the tingling in his spine returns, like this is an important moment and he shouldn't forget it. like it could be the last of their time together. he wants to fight against it, and hold her close. he wants to never leave this be, strip her down to her skin and her muscle and her bones and taste her until she is all he can remember.

the summer is ending. his promise of return  is looming closer. he can’t go back, he doesn’t want to.

he can picture ireland easily:  his mum will be up in her room or out boozing with her sister, unable to look at niall without seeing annie. he won't even see his father, tied up with business as usual with the family; something annie was always eagerly welcomed in to listen. the house he grew up in, with all it’s rooms and staircases, is haunted and eerie.

it can almost predict his friends and cousins all greeting him excitedly only to find that he's a person half-there, or the acquaintances on the outskirts of their circles who will look down through their lashes because they’re sorry for his loss. he can't go back and look at annie’s old school pictures and trophy awards; her room is nothing but a shrine for a girl who is never coming back. niall wonders if her clothes still smell like her. she’s just ashes now, dust to dust.

they fuck slowly on his mattress, smelling like yesterday's sweat. niall has scratch marks down his back and they burn, just like the bruise gemma bit into his neck burns, too. he's never let someone mark him before. surely that means something. as he comes, she slips her hands into his and pulls them above her head, egging his thrusts on with the tilt of her hips. he licks the sweat on her upper lip.

it feels like something important. all the messy bits of gemma, laid out before him to see. it should be important.

 

-

 

gemma doesn’t remind him of anyone and again she reminds him of everyone. she is the modern it girl, a french woman with a beautiful cunt and sweet smelling skin; she is well dressed and perfectly tanned and effortlessly toned. she’s like all the the girls niall attended debutante balls with and saw at charity events every season.

 

but she also is nothing like them: gemma is genuine when she doesn’t have to be, interested in niall’s passions rather than what he’s supposed to be doing now that’s finished his a levels. she could care less about his friends. being related to harry, niall wonders just how much she knows. he doesn’t feel like the more he tells her the more she has to use against him. it’s not like that with gemma.

niall isn’t scared. he isn’t. every moment longer he spends in greece, fucking about and rolling around in the sand with gemma, lost in her smile and the endless stretch of summer before them, he’s losing a little bit of the sadness that encloses him. he doesn’t feel so much like there’s lead in his stomach, dragging with him wherever he goes. he’s waking up more before the afternoon. he doesn’t wake up screaming.

and because of this, he feels guilty. it’s been not even three months and he’s already smiling without thinking of his sister, like it’s just that easy to throw away eighteen years and some months spent nearly every breathing moment together. he doesn’t know whether it’s better that he’s able to wake up in the mornings now, that the smell of gemma’s perfume makes him smile, and he’s actually starting to miss some of his favorite meals.

his sadness comes in waves, and the less it pulls him under the more he feels like he’s losing all the important bits of his sister: her touch against his arm, or the sound of her yelling when they used to kick the ball around; when she’d tap her fingers against the bathroom tile as niall would sing her a song; or maybe the smell of her. just her. he’s losing at the best parts, and soon they’ll fade until it’s all gray, all a memory.

this is what he is scared of most. this is what he cannot grasp.

 

-

 

gemma wakes up him the day he’s due for the airport. his bag is packed, waiting by the door.

she’s leaving too, but not to london. niall had asked her, nearly pleaded for her to come visit: london was nice in the fall, and he wasn’t even bothering with starting uni until january, so it’d be just them to gallivant around the city as they pleased.

gemma isn’t moved. “doesn’t work like that, ni,” she said, her knees tucked up underneath her arms, toes digging into the sand. “we can’t hide away forever.”

niall wants desperately to protest that. watch me, he wanted to say, rebellious against her statement. watch me hide forever. watch them never find me.

gemma has a ticket to bali to see some of her friends from her old school, then off to spend a few weeks in south africa for some relaxation therapy. niall has a feeling this is longest she’s stayed in one place at one time, and wonders, giddily, if it was for him.

he doesn’t want to picture london without her: same friends from before, same gray landscape, same city. he doesn’t want that. he wishes he could follow her to bali.

“look,” gemma had said that evening, as the sun set before them behind the sea, “i’ll come visit, okay? promise. as long as you take care of yourself, i’ll come see you.”

“that’s not enough,” niall argued, pulling his cheek out of her touch, jaw flexing.

gemma had shrugged, undeterred. “that’s all i can give you for right now.”

“i love you, you know,” niall had said, his brows drawn in frustration. “understand that.”

gemma had smiled, intimate, quiet. something niall hopes she only uses for him, “i understand.”

that was last night. gemma’s fingers already feel like ghosts as she wakes him up just before dawn, her naked breasts hanging near his face. he rolls her over, kissing her, tasting the sleep in her mouth, pushing her hair out of her face. he can feel her spread her legs around his hips, foot brushing aganist the back of his thigh, pressing him closer.

they don’t fuck quietly or slowly or gently: they fuck like they’re saying goodbye, like this is it. niall’s eyes are wet as he holds on to her hips, and gemma moves like her spine might snap in half, her fingers pulling at all parts of niall: his hair, his shoulders, his hands, tugging him closer. she bites at his skin like she wants to consume him: he would let her.

“i love you too,” she whispers, and niall counts it even as she comes a moment later, her hair covering some of her face, sweat glistening between her breasts.

 

-

autumn passes in a blur. he goes out with his mates eoghan and bressie as much as he can, throwing back drinks and getting rowdy in their favorite spots in east london, the world spinning until niall can’t see and he can’t think. the days blend together this way. he doesn’t know what else to do.

gemma texts him once in a while, sending him pictures of bali and then later of capetown, but it’s sporadic. if she doesn’t often have service, or she doesn’t care to, niall doesn’t know. he envies it, though. sometimes he sends an email to his mum when the guilt of ignoring her gets to be too much. sometimes she answers. mostly she doesn’t.

november makes niall want to curl up inside himself and hide for a very, very long time. it isn’t until half way through the month and weeks worth of radio silence does he find zayn already huddled up in his house in chelsea, curled up in a heap of blankets on his sofa. it’s such a familiar image that niall forgets what year it is.

it doesn’t help that zayn has always looked years younger as he slept, like he did when they were kids in matching uniforms, hearts open for the taking. niall can take a guess to why he’s here, hiding out in west london, and he doesn’t want to take it.

mr. malik has been that way with  zayn since niall can remember. it’s always been unspoken conversation about how zayn was disciplined at the tea table between all the mums: not only did zayn’s family stick out as muslims, but they were seen as “others.” niall understood that, being irish in the small london circle he habited, but never to the degree zayn endured.

the family life zayn kept at home meant that he was often not found there: most summers niall remembers zayn spent three, four weeks with his family in ireland, or perhaps with liam in derbyshire. louis never invited people round his house, even though it was conveniently between all of their places. louis has a hard time letting people in, niall knows. even his best mates.

he remembers seeing the first bruise on zayn’s back, mottled blue and yellow; then they were always places no one would see if zayn was dressed properly. niall had asked, _what happened to you_ , like all children do. zayn had socked in straight in the mouth. in retrospect, after that, they were more than friends.

later, annie had created a fort in the boy’s playroom. niall never knew how she got all those blankets to hang like they did, but it was a proper tent that they hid away in, bringing lamps off the dresser set and the telly and playing a bug’s life.

there was an imaginary world created around them, in a way only annie could think up, and the beauty of that memory contradicts the horrors zayn had repeated to them with a solemn, matter of fact tone niall still hears today. annie had held his hand when he had started to cry, and niall was thankful that his sister was there. she was always so much better at taking tears and tucking them away. maybe she saved them for later. she never cried herself.

annie isn’t here to help zayn now. niall wakes him up, taking in the way zayn shuffles carefully with a cringe. his thin t shirt sticks to his back as he peels it off. it looks fucking ripe. niall is sorry to say he’s seen worse.

“fucking christ, zed,” niall mutters. he tries to sound gruff because zayn doesn’t like it when he placates him about it. zayn just shrugs, blinking slowly like he’s coming back to life. “haven’t seen you much, ya lanky git.”

he can feel zayn’s shoulders shake where he laughs quietly, then sighs, clutching his side. “where does it hurt?” niall hums quietly, his fingers like shadows against zayn’s naked back. he goes to get the first aid kit out of the bar, something he doesn’t even use otherwise.

zayn shrugs again unhelpfully. niall wants to say, i missed you, but doesn’t know how to in a way that won’t make zayn feel guilty. so he buries it, and says nothing.

later, they are burrowed and small underneath a mountain of goose feather duvets and high thread count sheets. niall has his arms wrapped around zayn’s shoulders as he shakes. everything is silent, even niall’s heart. it barely beats anymore.

 

-

 

niall has a dream that he is a tiny child and annie and is older and she whispers to him: you are like an ocean. muted and quiet and steady; your anger and grief are leagues and leagues underneath all of us. we may never reach the bottom.

the dream changes again and they’re sitting upside down in her car in the bog again. there is blood and vodka all over niall’s knees and it burns, making him scream as struggles against his seatbelt. annie is looking at him from the driver’s seat, this time her neck separated from her head. blood drips down from her ears but she doesn’t seem to notice.

“wake up, ni,” she tells him as he tries to unbuckle her from her seat, though deep down he knows she’s dead – _wake up, ni, wake up, ni – wake up_

niall startles before dawn, his eyes wet. his hands shake when he washes his face, unable to look in the mirror.

 

-

 

he thinks about writing gemma a card, even goes to oliver bonas in sloane square and nearly buys one. he sees adverts for jo malone and tiffany, and wonders if she would like any of that stuff. probably not. he buys her a bottle of rose perfume and some kind of charm bracelet the lady picked out for him at the counter anyway, puts them in his closet and forgets about it.

he doesn’t write the letter. he texts her, but his texts go without replies. they’re not even read.

zayn doesn’t ask him to do wedding stuff with him, even though niall is supposed to be his best man come march. he doesn’t know what’s occurred between them, if it’s niall’s fault or zayn’s or a bit of both. most of the time he tries to stay away from wasting away inside his house in chelsea. it haunts him.

it’s one of those days when he hasn’t bothered to even get out of bed, instead ordering groceries through waitress delivery and listening to harry potter and the half blood prince on audio book – it’s pathetic, honestly, but niall can’t be fucked to care.

zayn wakes him up sometime after dusk has fallen. niall pulls his earphones out , wiping his mouth. he sees that zayn is holding a suitcase and is wearing a nearly destroyed armani sweater, one they used to share between them when they were at school. it makes his stomach warm just seeing it.

“hey,” niall says, cringing at the way his voice sounds, “you okay?”

zayn nods, his jaw flexing. he crawls next to niall, right up in his space, but doesn’t bother to get underneath the blankets. niall wishes he could ask him to stay. he wants him to stay and never leave, he wants someone to help him go through this but doesn’t know what to say. he wants them to go out and get fucked and drag race eoghan and his mates, perhaps book themselves a vip down in central and pull some serious damage on their cards. he wants to huddle in after and eat horribly greasy food and watch football replays.

he doesn’t utter a word of this. zayn looks torn between staying and going, but niall knows he’s shit comany and can’t entertain the way liam will. niall can see that is where zayn really wants to go: drawn to trouble and forbidden things like a moth to a flame. so niall lets him go.

niall can’t be the person he used to be: carefree and friendly and always good for a spliff. the boy who entered st. peter’s and the boy who left st. peter’s are not the same. niall has a dirty feeling that zayn misses that about him. he knows the other boys do, and that’s why they haven’t called. they don’t know what to say. niall doesn’t blame them. he doesn’t know either.

so maybe he does hold on for too long when zayn gets up to meet his driver, but all the same zayn scoops him up into a hug, nodding against his shoulder. when they part, niall feels cold. as he watches zayn leave, niall sees they are not at all the boys they were back in school.

he rolls over then, closing his eyes so he doesn’t see anything at all. heavy with heartache, he lets go.

 

-

 

niall doesn’t write a damn letter even though he wants to. instead he tells himself he doesn’t miss gemma. he knows better than to dole out more than he can take, and he knows his limits and he can only feel so much at one time, so niall tells himself to knock it the fuck off. he doesn’t miss her long eyelashes, her white knickers and their toes in the sand, wrapped up with a bottle of wine. he tells himself, get the fuck over it, niall.

his parents fly into london and for two weeks the house is bustling with life as the house keepers are kept on full pay roll and his mother and her friends are constantly in and out of the house. she fusses a lot about the tree and where it should go, and making sure everyone has rsvp’d to their annual christmas event so she can place the order for drinks accordingly. she’s lose weight. niall wishes he could talk to her, but mostly she just runs her fingers through his hair and says nothing.

he doesn’t play his guitar or sing any christmas songs or celebrate any of this wretched holiday because it’s all tainted with his sister. this was annie’s holiday, and this was usually the time annie would bug him to play her favorite holiday songs. he’d sing for her, silly, and then she’d smack him.

“play it right,” she’d say, acting like she was angry at him. “you’ve got such a nice voice, you bloody idiot.”

he goes to party after party, taking greetings and air kisses and the occasional awkward “sorry for your loss” speech which niall tries to avoid as much as he can if he senses the conversation going in that direction. mostly he wishes he were with his boys down in spain, but also knows it’s not meant to be. he’s in no shape to be around anyone right now.

annie’s stocking is up on the fireplace in his mother’s bedroom by a smaller tree she set up just for herself. he stares at it for a long time, and then drinks himself into oblivion once their christmas eve party is in full swing downstairs.

he wakes up on christmas morning in his bathtub, his face a wreck. he can’t remember what happened the night before, and he doesn’t want to.

 

-

 

it’s niall’s second funeral in a year. he’s not liking this trend.

zayn’s family doesn’t speak at the funeral, which niall knows already is going to be a large topic for the breakfast table for weeks to come. instead they sit silently in the first row with blank faces as one of zayn’s uncles murmurs most of the funeral prayers. they are almost entirely in arabic, and niall just mimics most of the movements he sees around him, silent. he’s never been to a islamic funeral before. he’s not sure what to expect.

zayn’s fiance is sitting next to him. from what niall can tell, they’re holding hands. they don’t stay close together, however, as most of the men leave to take mr. malik for burial, and women and children stay behind in the square. when zayn returns, he makes beeline for niall and louis, a strange expression on his face.

“i need to get out of here, now,” he says quietly, and it looks like he’s barely breathing. louis nods like a man on a mission as they leave the courtyard of the mosque,  the late decemeber wind whipping at their cheeks. they pile into louis’ car right away. it’s the first time in years that it’s snowed in london.

“did i just attend my father’s funeral?” zayn asks incredulously as louis shoves a flask in his hand. zayn’s eyes are wide and unseeing, looking down at his hands. he takes a long draw on the flask, flinching at the taste.

“he’s gone,” louis says matter of factly, “he’s dead, zayn.”

“i know,” zayn whispers into his hands, his whole face obstructed from view. “i know, i know,” he wipes his face messily.

zayn doesn’t talk about it. niall doesn’t ask. louis is already on the phone back to spain, his leg twitching nervously and a hand running patterns through his mussed hair. it’s strange to see louis anything but carefree. he looks anxious, hands twitching for a cigarette that isn’t there.

“your mum and dad still at the house?” zayn rubs his eyes again, like he used to when they were little boys, staying up too late.

“no,” niall says, “they’re on the usual nyc trip, see some family, toast new years.”

“can we go to yours, then?” zayn asks quietly. niall doesn’t think he’d say no to anything zayn asked of him right now. zayn has that kind of hold on people.

he nods, extending his arm and watching as zayn falls into his embrace, curling up into his side with his flask tucked neatly to his chest. niall tips his head to the side, cheek rubbing against the top of zayn’s flat, unstyled hair.

“love you, ni,” zayn whispers after a while, eyes closed. he reaches his hand out blindly and niall takes it, covers it with his own, squeezing tightly. he wants to convey everything he feels into this touch. zayn falls asleep soon after and for the first time since niall’s seen him, he looks at peace.

 

-

 

liam shows up with harry styles in tow at three in the morning, out of breath and soaking wet with melted snow. niall lets them in, blinking blearily. he’s made aware for the first time that the house is still halfway under christmas deconstruction. there’s still a wreath wrapped around the grand staircase.

“what the bloody hell -” niall curses, rubbing his eyes. he must have fallen asleep watching telly in the reception room. zayn is fast asleep, and has from this afternoon upstairs in his room. niall hadn’t wanted to disturb him. his neck aches from the weird position he fell asleep in.

“i know it’s late, but we caught a red eye and then we lost a bag at heathrow -” liam whispers as niall ushers them upstairs to the first floor, going straight for the bar and chugging some water. he grabs two towels off a drying rack in his kitchen and hands them over. “so zayn’s father, he’s – the funeral was today. when did he...?”

“zayn said he died roughly half hour after everyone gave their goodbyes,” niall shrugs, looking around for leftovers in the small bar fridge to heat up.

“fuck,” liam rubs a hand over his head, and niall watches as harry places a hand on his shoulder, soothing him. it strikes him as odd, but he’s almost in a post nap dream state, and everything feels slightly backwards. “he asleep?”

“since four. he doesn’t want to deal with anything right now, i think. his mum called, but it was short,” niall finds the italian louis ordered earlier in the microwave, setting a timer. “set your stuff down and eat, mate.”

they shake snow out of their hair as they sit at the bar, setting old monogrammed duffle bags down at their feet. harry sways slightly at the bar stool like he’s drunk too much of the shit wine first class offers.

“okay, haz?” liam asks harry, who looks sleepy and sort of sick. he leans into liam’s shoulder, his eyes fluttering closed, hair a damp mess, wild around his cheeks.

“m’ tired,” he slurs.

“you hungry?” liam asks, but harry just shakes his head, smiling slowly at niall like they’re in on a secret together. niall smiles back, unsure.

“is louis staying here?” harry asks, this time directly to niall.

“yeah, in the room he always stays in,” niall shrugs, and then realises that harry might not know where that is, “up another flight of stairs and third on the left.”

harry wanders off, dragging a beat up louis vuitton bag in his wake. he remembers harry from school differently, but it feels strange, knowing all about him through his sister. he wonders if that what was the smile about, niall realises belatedly. maybe gemma has told him. he wants to ask her.

harry’s tall now, taller than niall, but youth filters out of every orifice of him, with his loose smile and his large eyes and his rambunctious hair, the same kind of hair gemma has. the kid was one of the only pianists at st. peter’s, a year below him, but he doesn’t remember him being so slender. or strange.

“is he drunk?” niall gestures, voice barely a whisper.

liam rolls his eyes, “no, that’d be too easy. he took something louis left for him before the flight. i’d say he’s rolling, but i think it’s perscription. who knows.”

“louis is a right monster sometimes, isn’t he? god, everyone knows better than to take whatever he’s got in his tin,” niall snorts, “poor harry.”

poor harry, indeed. it is so obvious he is smitten with louis, the new money wild child from hell, the source of trouble and entitlement all throughout niall’s boyhood, the kid who introduced him to weed when they were thirteen and then cocaine at fifteen and taught him how to pull uni girls and threw up his black cards like they were a deck to shuffle.  tomlinson, with his don’t-give-a-fuck attitude, with his words like whiplash, always fucking around, never taking anyone or anything serious. niall hopes harry styles is a slap in the face.

“who was at the funeral?” liam asks mid bite, putting his fork down like the question has just come to him.

niall sighs, “dunno. bunch of people zayn is related to, businessmen mr. malik knew. same old crowd we know.”

but liam is not deterred in a way that niall both hates and loves about him. “you know what i mean.”

“i don’t want to be the one who told you, li,” niall says plainly, watching like slow motion as liam’s face crumples, his body folding in on itself. “you knew, you knew all along. why didn’t you call him out on his shit?”

liam looks helpless, his throat swallowing thickly, “i didn’t want to know, i guess. fuck.”

“he’s fucked everything up between you,” niall says, “and he knows he’s been a shit friend. don’t let him get away with this bullshit, liam.”

“i won’t,” liam’s voice shakes as he rubs his eyes, hiding his face from view. niall watches the way his shoulders tremble like a wave. he sits up then, like he remembers who he is and composes himself, “it’s fucking late, i’m sorry. lets go to bed.”

niall does not go back to sleep. he leads liam up the next floor, expecting him to go to the guest room. instead, he heads straight for niall’s bedroom where zayn is, and closes the door quietly. niall does not follow them. there’s another guest room and his parents’ room, but he choose neither. he goes back downstairs and stares around at the empty reception room, the messy bar.

his house is again filled with people. this time he’s lucky enough to be around people he loves. but they all fall around niall like broken little pieces. he doesn’t feel complete. in fact, he feels even more alone than before.

he goes for a run, the snow licking his bare legs, waking him up.

 

-

 

the boys shuffle in and out of the house like they own it. it was an old routine of theirs when they were proper kids, and then later teenagers before they got their own cars and their own keys to the summer houses. louis would end up staying a couple nights with niall, and then maybe liam would come over and stay a few more; it was always unspoken that wherever niall was, zayn was usually close behind.

then they’d rotate: they’ll go round the apartment zayn’s father keeps at the savoy when he’s not in london or perhaps make the trek out of derbyshire to mess round in the countryside. sometimes they’d drive into the city from st. peter’s for a weekend just to fuck about for a couple of days before circulating somewhere else.

wherever they went, a whirlwind followed. they brought life as much as they brought destruction. with them, it was packaged deal.

this past year, and then what happened in may had effectively ended that tradition, and now it looks like the seedlings of it are growing back. zayn hasn’t left niall’s room in three days. niall went up to his bedroom door the other day, shy about his own room, but he hadn’t been able to even knock. he had slinked away, feeling oddly ashamed of himself. everything between them feels strange and disjointed.

niall lets himself into his house and climbs the stairs to the second floor, the first floor dark and unlived in. the second is a stark contrast: the telly is on but muted, take away cartons flooding the bar surfaces. harry is asleep on one side of the couch, wrapped up in what looks like the guest duvet. it’s wound so tightly he looks like a burrito with curly hair.

niall throws himself down on the couch, shrugging out of his jeans and stealing some of harry’s blanket, unlinking his bulagari watch and letting it slink onto the side table, settled in to watch whatever’s on and fall asleep. it’s one of those days that niall doesn’t want to deal with anything. he hadn’t been able to sleep the night before, or the one before that.

louis comes down the stairs dressed in designer sweatpants and some kind of structured sweater. he looks like some kind of advert without even trying, his hair pushed back from his forehead and a haughty look on his face.

“look at you two pathetic people,” he snipes, and niall rolls his eyes, sticking a foot out to kick the back of louis’ knee. “and where have you been off to? see a special lady friend?”

niall laughs quietly, “no, fuck you. i went on some errands. mum’s birthday is soon, had to get the lady of the house something nice, didn’t i?”

“the image of a perfect son, you are,” louis smirks, settling down in one of the armchairs, picking up his ipad and scrolling through it disinterestedly. niall doesn’t reply, knowing deep down he is far from that. “you boys are horribly boring, i hope you know. when liam is the only one out of the house, there’s a problem.”

“sorry to disappoint,” niall drawls, “but if i remember correctly, i was the only one to attended not three, but five christmas eve parties in one night, and i did the rounds at the some of the yule balls. all of which you were absent from, git.”

“all that partying has you exhausted, then,” louis rolls his eyes, “god, what a hardship. free alcohol and hot debutante girls. your suffering must have been great.”

“you haven’t any idea of my suffering,” niall responds, but it falls flat, and sounds harsh, even to his own ears. louis smiles then, something softer than before. it makes niall angry at himself for saying anything, for once again ruining playful banter.

louis stands up, plugging in his computer and looking for the keys to his jag. “you lot are boring me and i can’t smoke in here. ring me if you want to go out for drinks later.”

“you going out to puddle about alone, then?” niall teases, snuggling farther back into the warmth of the couch.

louis scoffs, flicking his keys and gathering his fags, “don’t be ridiculous. stan and el and i are going for a late brunch.”

“don’t be smart,” niall says, and he finds his voice thick with affection for louis. don’t be smart is something they’ve said between them for so many years it’s become some kind of mantra between them.

louis ruffles his fingers through niall’s hair for a second, his mouth a ghost of a smile, “play it stupid,” he says back, like he has a thousand times before.

“i hope you know i don’t smoke inside purely out of respect,” louis calls as the door shuts behind him, and niall chuckles to himself, even though no one can hear him.

 

-

 

harry wakes up an hour or two later. niall had hoped for a nap that did not come, instead opting for a repeat of friends with the captions turn on. niall’s eyes go in and out of focus until he realises harry is stirring beside him, rising out of his cocoon and rubbing his eyes. his hair in is an absolute state, and if niall weren’t so drowsy he’d make a comment about it.

“i love _friends_ ,” harry says first, his voice but a hoarse whisper. he finds an unopened bottle of fiji water by the table, and impressively downs the entire bottle in one go, wiping his mouth after. “can i watch with you?”

“suppose you already are,” niall shrugs, but all the same he tosses the remote over for harry to turn up the volume.

“thanks for letting me stay here,” harry says instead of unmuting it. he turns his whole body towards niall, and in the light he looks oddly translucent, like his skin could be see through. niall can count the blue veins in his body, the ones in his hands and in his neck. he has a spider web of purple veins over his eyelids, which had a lovely, bedroom quality to them. he looks absolutely exhausted.

“course, mate,” niall shrugs, because it isn’t uncommon for most of his friends to come and crash here once and a while, even if niall isn’t always that close with them. lads are lads, after all. this house is too big for one person. “this your last term at st. peter’s, then?”

harry nods, “i start back up in ten days, i think. happy to be finished,” he rubs a hand through his hair, sighing at it’s disobedience. “my sister, gemma says she’s gonna visit me.”

this is an old trick niall’s been taught when someone wants information out of you. niall isn’t rising to take the bait. “sure that’ll be nice.”

harry nods, smiling slightly, “yeah. she’s mentioned seeing you this summer. didn’t know you went off to greece. how was it?”

“fine, all considering,” niall shrugs, and then because he can’t help himself, “does she always travel this much?”

harry laughs quietly, “yeah. never can get a hold of her. i haven’t seen her for nearly a year.”

“fuck,” niall shakes his head, “i could never go that long without seeing – “

then he stops, his mouth snapping shut so quickly his teeth click together. harry gets a gloomy expression on his face, something similar to bambi watching his mother get strapped to the back of a truck. “i’m sorry, niall.”

“nah,” niall shakes his head, feeling uncomfortable and hot inside his own skin, “don’t worry about it.”

“no,” harry argues, “it should be worried about. it’s not right, the way everyone ignores shit around here. you should talk about it."

“you’re hanging round the wrong kids if you want communication and cooperation,” niall snaps, “from what i hear you’ve got no pedestal to stand on and lecture me on what's healthy.”

he expects harry to rebuttal, to say something waspish and then redirect the conversation to something easier, the way they’ve all been taught to do. instead, he nods and eyes niall with a narrowed gaze. “you don't see me denying anything, do you?”

“so what’s wrong with you, then?” niall spits back, but his voice has lost it’s fight, it’s viciousness. he turns fully to look back at harry now, at his concave, model cheekbones, his large eyes, the heavy pink curve of his mouth. "liam said something about you being ill."

he looks like if niall so much as sneezed it would blow him away. but he’s not trying to find niall’s wounds and dig his fingers in; again, like gemma, there is no malicious intent behind his words. there’s no advantage to be had over niall and his admissions: he doesn’t care about taking him down or spreading rumours about him later. he’s just talking. harry is just talking to him.

harry shrugs helplessly, “the doctors i’ve seen doesn’t know. i’ve just been really ill, it seems, and tired. they want to do a blood test, but i’ve resisted...” harry shrugs again, like he doesn’t know what he’s saying.

“harry,” niall says flatly, “you have to get a test done. you can’t avoid having a blood test done. christ, if something is wrong with you, do something about it.”

he sounds like a hypocrite, but harry doesn’t call him on it.

“it’s not that easy,” harry protests, “i don’t want to be ill.”

“you can’t choose whether or not you’re ill, even if you ignore it,” niall snaps back. “what is the worst that is going to happen if you are sick? you get treated.”

“gemma isn’t about to pause her world travel plans to nurse her stupid baby brother, and louis sure as fuck isn’t a housemaid. i can’t go home to france in the middle of year thirteen,” harry wrings his hands, tucking them into his lap. “so i can’t be ill.”

“you won’t be finishing year thirteen if you drop dead either way,” niall points out. “your sister will come round if you really need her.”

he does not mention louis, because between all of them, louis is an unpredictable contradictory force of nature. there is no point to try and predict anything he does or will do.

“oh, you an expert on my sister, are you,” harry narrows his eyes, but there’s a quirk of a smile on his lips. “i’ve got an appointment tomorrow. i’ll ask them for one.”

“there’s a good lad,” niall smiles, finding it easy to talk to harry. he sees so much of gemma in harry, the way they smile, the messy tresses of their dark curly hair, the same shape and colour of their eyes – it makes niall fond just by association. the ache inside of him grows, because fuck, he misses her. he wishes he didn’t, but he does.

harry snuggles farther into his cocoon, but he doesn’t fall asleep, just watches the telly quietly, his head nearly leaning against niall’s thigh. niall finds himself staring down, at the colourless canvas of his skin. harry is fidgeting slightly, like he can’t get comfortable, like he’s in pain. niall wonders how much he suffers underneath all that glow.

 

-

 

niall jolts awake some hours later. it’s night, the lights in the city are out, and somehow he’s been sandwiched between harry with his generous following of quilts and the couch.

he runs a shaky hand through his hair, flashes of his nightmare skipping behind his eyelids, taunting. this isn’t real, he tells himself, but the images of annie upside in the car are still at the forefront of his mind and he winces, hearing himself scream when the emergency responders had cut him out of the car.

it feels as if it could have happened yesterday. his heart beats like a bruise under his skin and he is vulnerable, cold, naked with grief. he’s not eighteen anymore, but it feels like he could be, falling onto the side of the road, mouth full of dirt, scream stuck in his lungs. he’s still living somewhere between wakefulness and dreams. he never feels truly awake anymore.

harry stirs, mumbling something in his throat before shifting. niall vaguely wonders where everyone is, why he hadn’t been woken up earlier. maybe louis never came back here.

“lou,” harry says in his sleep, reaching a hand out to grasp at air.

niall takes it, holding his fingers close to his chest. he doesn’t ask himself why he does it, except that he knows annie would have. she is the ghost inside his ribcage.

 

-

 

january start is just around the corner for niall, and he can feel the anxiety rise up in him. he skipped starting in the fall like everyone else. his parents hadn’t said anything, the grief still so fresh, but he knows if he started an entire year after he was suppose to that they would step in and object. it’s okay to mourn, niall could picture his father saying, but there is a time and a place for everything.

it’s bad for their image, essentially. niall needs to grow the fuck up. he got into imperial, he’s going to go to imperial. their acceptance only extends so far. they've already let him miss fall and make it up in the summer.

it’s been a week since the funeral, and he doesn’t even see zayn anymore; he’s hardly sure that zayn is staying here at all. it’s appropriate now for zayn to start worrying about his father’s businesses and their associates as the man of his family, and niall wonders how he’s shouldering it. zayn has never been one to deal especially well with expectations of him. niall wishes he knew, but the air between them is daunting, unexplored. niall doesn’t want to push too soon.

zayn’s always been his brother, since boyhood, inside jokes and music lessons and shared fags, old lyrics written on napkins and crude drawings left for niall during school. he knows zayn like he knows his own hands, weathered from rowing and rugby, nails bitten down to the quick, cuticles torn.

he hasn’t been able to look at his hands properly for a while, though.

he doesn’t know what has transpired between liam and zayn, but niall’s mum emailed him to tell him that she ticked the box that said they would be attending the wedding in march and that he should order a suit from tom ford, or if he fancies, armani. she doesn’t care either way, as long as he wears black. niall doesn’t know what that means for liam, or for any of them. by zayn getting married, it feels like something has broken between them. they were always the four boys, single, devoted only to each other and the most fun they could possibly have.

liam had texted him the other day saying he was staying with his mum at the ritz for the remainder of his christmas hols. liam, being liam, made the offer of brunch at the four seasons before niall started university as a kind gesture. niall had wanted to call, but he knows when liam needs space, needs time. niall understands that all too well.

louis and harry are the only ones staying at niall’s now, except that louis is rarely to be found in one place at one time, and niall and harry end up spending most of their time together. the housekeepers had come back after boxing day to tidy the rest of the house, and it looks considerably better. niall has been able to move back into his own room, no trace of zayn left. harry moves into the guest bedroom that louis was occupying. neither of them mention that louis’ suitcase isn’t even there anymore.

they order brunch in and have drinks in southwest london, spending evenings at the prince’s gate in richmond, watching the icy water of thames drift past them, the last remnants of the snow melting. niall is grateful for it; this christmas has been painful and uneven, and he wants to forget it.

harry is a good laugh, even if his presence makes niall miss gemma more and more with each passing day. it’s been months since he’s last heard from her, and he wonders if it’s worth even bothering to think of her as an option anymore. it was just a summer, he can picture her saying, i thought a boy like you did that sort of thing all the time.

niall doesn’t know what to make of harry, except that he is young and talented and vulnerable. he has that socialite quality to him, the same that gemma possesses, but his youth is often mistakenly perceived as innocence, and niall feels a deep protective affection bloom just from the short time he’s actually gotten to know him. that must be part of the styles dna, he muses cynically. they make people care.

“you should write my sister,” harry says one morning, both of them laden with back-to-school shopping, doing particular damage at topman and harrods. harry is flailing with a bespoke suit in a plastic film under one arm when niall shoots him a look. harry’s cheeks colour, “i was snooping through your room and found the perfume.”

“christ, harry,” niall groans, “do you mind?”

“no, not really,” harry says shamelessly, “but you should write. she likes that most. if she spent three bloody months in greece just for you, she most likely still remembers your name.”

“oh, fuck you,” niall laughs, messing with harry’s curls in a headlock until he cries uncle.

 

-

 

he writes her a fucking letter, feeling like a idiot the entire time. he doesn’t tell harry. that kid is self-satisfied enough as it is.

 

-

 

his first day goes as to be expect. he takes the tube, something that made harry scoff when he told him, but he doesn’t mind. the hustle of the underground is nice, and south ken is nothing to sneer at. he comes home later, exhausted from trying to function.

he finds louis smoking a cigarette on the front step with shaky hands.

“lou, hey, man,” niall edges, not sure what mood louis is in yet. using his school nickname helps, usually. louis looks up suddenly, as if he was a million miles away just before. he flicks the cigarette, ashes drop to the ground.

“old friend, how was class? dreadful, i can only assume,” louis’ voice breaks on the last sentence like he can’t help it, and he presses his forehead in his hand, inhaling sharply. niall sits down next to him, his leather rucksack hitting the marble steps loudly.

“where have you been, then?” niall shakes louis’ shoulder. “harry’s been sick worrying about you, even though he won’t say it. you can’t leave a note next time you decide to fuck off?”

“i’ve been with liam,” louis says, until he sees niall’s expression and backtracks, “well, i’ve seen him. i’ve just been trying to figure everything out.”

“does drinking like your liver doesn’t exist help you figure things out? because you sure act like it,” niall says sharply, “you’re so fucking irresponsible.”

“well, what am i suppose to do?” louis snaps, his hands trembling as he brings another cigarette up to his mouth and lights it. he looks haggard, despite the tailored cream suit he’s wearing, like he hasn’t eaten or slept in days. his pupils are dilated. for fucks sake, niall thinks.

“you’re supposed to be a decent human being, is what you’re supposed to do,” niall says, and he doesn’t care if his tone is harsh. louis turns away, jaw flexing, eyes hard. “you’re supposed to be there for your friends.”

“i don’t know how,” louis says softly.

“fuck you, yes you do,” niall says, quick as lightning, “you just don’t want to. that’s what relationships are, being there when it gets hard – too hard – so what, ya wanna fuck off? fine. fuck you too. sooner or later, lou, it – you’ll call, and i won’t even want to answer.”

“i know,” louis says quietly, “i’m sorry.”

niall feels a wave of fondness and sadness all tangled together for louis in that moment, and he bumps his shoulder, sighing heavily, “look, harry’s been going round to this team of doctors, and i think you should – “

“oh, what, you’re harry’s keeper now?” louis bites and niall nearly rears back at his tone.

“you literally brought him here, and then left. i’m letting him stay here until he goes back – you know, i don’t know why i’m even telling you this. i don’t owe you any explanations.”

louis’ eyes are still narrowed, “he’ll cling to you now, you know. he’ll never leave you the fuck alone, he’ll always want to spend time with – “

“and what is so wrong with that?” niall finds himself shouting, but is helpless to stop it, “what is so terrible about being around someone who genuinely likes you? is that such a horrid chore for you, louis? fucking sakes, he’s just a kid, he fucking loves you – “

“stop,” louis holds his hand up, the one without the fag, “stop. i know. fucking, i know.”

“yeah,” niall says quietly, and he grips the nape of louis’ neck where he’s bent down, some of his fringe hiding his face, “yeah, you do know.”

“it’s just, he wants the world,” louis says with a wobbly voice, making him sound like a lost fucking kid. “and i can’t give him that.”

niall doesn’t have an antidote for that, so he hands louis another fag, and they end up smoking the entire box on the front steps of his house.

 

-

 

they all go for drinks and dinner in the east end for niall’s favourite lebanese food, pub crawling after. harry is alight and craving for louis’ attention, which he relents endlessly, and the three of them gallivant around their old haunts, running into old friends. it feels like they are on a clock, with a limit, and their time is up. niall tries to shake the feeling all evening, but it sticks with him, making him uneasy. the night ends somewhere before dawn, and niall has class later that day, but he can’t find himself to care. he falls into his bed in his large empty bedroom thinking, _loving someone is the most destructive thing you can do_.

 

 

-

 

harry doesn’t make it till monday.

but rewind: niall comes home from class with an odd feeling in his stomach. the clouds outside are dark even for early afternoon. the house is seemingly empty when he returns, and he dumps his bag near the bar. the telly is on again, but silent, and there’s no sign of the housekeeper, either. he checks his phone, which has no new messages from harry telling him he went out. he climbs the stairs to find the guest room harry is staying in empty, but the when he looks closer, he sees that the bath light is on.

he fingers shake as he pulls back the door; he doesn’t know why: he expects harry to be having a shower or fake-shaving over the sink, his curls in disarray, his joggers slung low on his hips. niall hopes, deep within, that this is what he will find.

instead harry is lying crumpled on the floor, face down in the bath rug. he looks like niall could fold him into a cup, his spine a railway down his back, each vertebrae visible. everything seems to happen slowly, all the air gone out of his lungs as he rushes to him. niall doesn’t hear sound, doesn’t feel, doesn’t breathe. his heart is beating, his brain is chanting, no.

a feeling niall had hoped he had forgotten strikes upon him again like the wrath of god, like drowning: this is his survivors guilt rearing back for a fight. it tastes like metal between his teeth.

niall doesn’t know if he’s dead but he can’t tell if he’s breathing. harry is lying so still when niall turns him over, and he presses against his chest, trying to remember the finer points of cpr from the nhs posters he’d seen before, but his mind draws a blank. he thinks he hears something break when he pushes too hard on harry’s chest, and he pulls back immediately as if he’s been burned, fumbling for his phone to ring an ambulance.

he wants to shake harry _: wake up. wake up. don’t do this. open your fucking eyes. don’t fucking to do this_. he can feel his brain start to plead and bargain: _please wake up, harry. please give me a sign_.

 _harry, please. please don’t do this_.

 

-

 

it rains. and rains. and never stops fucking raining.

niall barely remembers the drive to the hospital following the ambulance or trying to find where they’ve put harry, waiting in several different rooms, restlessly trying to call anyone he can think of. when the nurse asks him for emergency numbers, he can’t produce any. he gives them louis’. he gives them gemma’s. he hopes it enough.

he knows it’s not.

 

-

 

louis comes in half-past seven, completely drenched in black trousers and a now ruined pair of leather oxfords, his jacket slung over one arm and his cigarettes clutched tightly in his other arm. his eyes are blown, glassy, and he has this dazed quality about him: niall recognises instantly that he’s stoned. he’s hoping this was before he got the phone call, because he can’t fathom what he would do if it was after.

“what happened?” louis sputters, looking around for a nurse and not finding any, his eyes settling on niall, who is sitting in one of the uncomfortable chairs by harry’s bed.

“they don’t know. i found him, collapsed in the toilet this afternoon,” niall’s voice is scratchy for overuse, from demanding answers and asking for information and from earlier, screaming at harry to wake up. “where the fuck have you been? don’t you answer your phone?”

“i’m sorry, fuck, i was genuinely in class,” louis says, and he doesn’t move from his spot in the middle of the hospital room, unable to look at harry directly. niall reaches over, grabbing harry’s hand and minding the iv, holding it gently.

 

-

 

it rains on.

louis and niall wait there for what seems like hours, though it actuality it’s only a few. niall watches as louis grows more and more agitated, restless, like he can’t sit still. he paces a lot, rubbing his hand through his hair, which is still damp from the rain and mussed from his playing with it.

“look,” niall says finally, breaking the silence, “why don’t you get a dry change of clothes and a meal and have a fucking cigarette and come back later, okay?”

louis nods numbly, grabbing his coat. “call me with anything. i’ll stay close.”

“i will,” niall agrees, and then says “and lou? he’s going to want to see you when he wakes up.”

louis swallows, turning to look at the wall, distance apparent in his expression. he nods again, unable to focus as he flicks his carton of cigarettes and disappears. niall lets out a sigh he didn’t know he was holding.

liam arrives later. niall had called him earlier, leaving three or four messages on his phone because he hadn’t known what to do and no one was answering their phones. he looks windswept from the storm outside, but considerably more put together. niall expects no less of him.

“jesus, is everything okay?” liam breathes, “the nurse gave me a load of attitude about trying to find him because i wasn’t family, but.”

niall nods, “sorry, i didn’t know who else to call. i – “

before he can finish his sentence, zayn walks into the room, dressed in a inky black business suit tailored in a way niall’s never seen him, his hair shaved short on the sides and slicked back.

it’s like liam’s entire body has seized next to him, unable to breathe, and niall tenses, waiting for something to blow. fuck. he shouldn’t have called both but – fuck it. he didn’t know what else to do. liam stands up suddenly like an animal backed into a corner, and zayn swallows like he isn’t sure this is reality, like he doesn’t know how to got here.

“what happened to him?” zayn says, and it looks like it physically pains him to draw his eyes away from liam to point to harry’s still form on the bed between them.

“he’s collapsed, his doctor is doing some tests, he’ll give us news soon,” niall says, and he’s unable to control how harsh and short his tone is, but zayn, usually so sensitive to the way people talk to him, doesn’t seem to notice. niall sighs again, frustrated, “look, i called you both because i need to go home and change and maybe try and fucking sleep, but i didn’t want him to be alone if he woke up before i got back – “

“well, i don’t understand why i was called,” zayn interrupts snidely.

“are you – he’s our friend, zayn,” liam chastises, his voice full of outraged incredulity, “what is the matter with you?”

“oh, he’s your friend, is he?” zayn snaps, and niall has no idea what he means by that.

“what is that supposed to mean?” liam asks, holding his hands up defensively, looking around like there’s an answer floating somewhere in the room.

“it means i saw you and harry together, liam – in spain, i fucking saw him kiss you, even though you were with – “

“even though i was with you?” liam finishes for him, his brows drawn in a worried line on his face, his eyes wide and fierce with rage. “the same way you were with me, but still marrying her? fuck you. it wasn’t even like that – fuck you.”

“shut up!” niall finds himself shouting before zayn can rebuttal, his face flushed, “shut the fuck up. christ, we’ve known this kid for three years – seriously, he’s been our friend – however close or not, and you two can’t even be fucked about him. what the fuck.”

the room falls silent, and liam has the decency to look ashamed of himself, but niall isn’t finished, “i don’t even know why i bothered. it’s not like we’re friends we used to be – afterall, where the fuck were you guys when my fucking sister died?”

his voice breaks, cracking over the word sister like rock splitting wood, and he takes a heaving sigh, running a hand through his hair. liam shakes his head, pacing near harry’s bed.

“we – you ran off to greece, ni,” liam says quietly, “we thought you wanted to be alone.”

“yeah, well you didn’t ask, did you? don’t pretend it would have been such a burden to buy a plane ticket and come see me. you just didn’t want to.”

“i’m sorry,” zayn mutters, “i fucked up. i should have been there.”

“but you weren’t there,” niall bites back, and he feels his eyes burn, his vision cloudy and wet, “when your dad died, mate, i dropped everything and was there...you don’t fucking get it, and you never will,” niall stops himself then, chest heaving. he wipes at his face, unable to look at either of them. “look, i’ll be right back.”

“niall – “ liam says quietly, but niall shakes his head, already turning to leave the room and fucking fix his face.

he comes back with his face splashed with cold water and a shitty cup of coffee in his hand to find zayn by the bedside, occupying the seat niall had before. liam is no where in sight. when zayn looks up, oddly grown up and professional in his suit, he looks embarrassed.

“liam said he’d come by tomorrow morning to check on him,” zayn murmurs when niall takes a seat opposite him, “he says he’s sorry.”

“look, it doesn’t matter now,” niall shrugs, “it’s in the past.”

“do you think – “ zayn starts, then stops himself, looking at harry’s drawn white face, absent of it’s usual colour and grace. “is he going to be alright?”

“i don’t know,” niall says truthfully, “he told me last week he’s not been feeling well since last summer.”

“fuck,” zayn says, making like he was going to rub a hand through his hair but thought better of it.

“didn’t know kings had such a dress code,” niall comments, the edge of a tease in his voice.

a half smile appears on zayn’s face, “yeah, well, i dropped out of university.”

“fuck, zayn,” niall mutters, rubbing his temple, “why? why didn’t you tell me?”

“my father’s will has been executed, and he wanted me to be the ceo of his companies. obviously there’s a struggle at his office, because my uncle has been working under him for decades, and he thought he was next in line. so in order to keep my word, i quit uni, starting work this week.”

“how is it, though?” niall asks somberly. zayn laughs, but it’s full of mirth, and it falls flat between them.

“bloody awful. everyone wants my throat. they don’t think i earned the position,” zayn says truthfully, “which i didn’t, actually. but i’m keeping his wishes...it’s the least i can do. try. he wrote me a letter that was to be given to me in case of his death.”

“what did the letter say?”

there’s a wistful look on zayn’s face, one of full or sorrow and longing. longing for his father, or for what he’s now given up by dropping out, niall doesn’t know, but he hopes it’s the latter. niall still hates mr. malik, and he will hate him as he rots in his grave. but it’s different for zayn. your own family is always different.

“that he was proud of me. that he hoped i get married. that he knew i was going to be a great business man,” zayn sighs, and his smile is soft, unhappy. “never could say those things to me when he was alive, but.”

“are you happy?” niall asks, but he knows it’s a shit question, and he feels awful as soon as it leaves his mouth. but zayn is gentle, and just shakes his head.

“no. but then i think, are any of us?”

niall doesn’t want to answer that.

 

-

 

the tests have been processed, but the doctor is hesitant to release them until a family member is present because harry is under eighteen. the age of consent is sixteen in the uk, niall had argued, because it’s senseless that he wouldn’t be able to know. he’s short and agitated with how little sleep he’s gotten. he’s already missed two of his classes and he’s only a week into term.

harry hasn’t woken up. the nurses tell him he’s not in a coma, but niall remains unconvinced.

that was yesterday.

today, niall skims through the cafeteria to grab more coffee, unable to eat anymore of the food from the hospital. he’s rushing back to harry’s floor when he catches a familiar head of dark curls in the waiting room near the nurses’ counter.

he feels himself stop, like he’s in a movie. “gemma,” he calls, and she whirls around, cheeks flushed with worry, a relieved look on her face when she recognises him.

“niall, hi – sorry, god, hi, do you know what’s going on? where’s harry?” gemma says, one word tumbling after another out of her mouth, her lips pink and full, bright like blood. her skin is tan and golden.

“he’s upstairs, i’ll take you. now that you’re here we can speak with a doctor – “ niall says, grabbing her hand and pulling her up to the next floor. when they reach it, he finds gemma stops him, pulling him into a handicapped toilet

“wait,” she says, and then takes a deep breath. “just. i missed you. i didn’t realise.”

“i did,” niall says seriously, taking her face in his hands, tilting her head up towards him. “...realise. fuck, you have no idea.”

“i do – i got your letter, and i was flying back to the uk when i got the call in heathrow, and i came here as soon as i – i’m just. i’m so glad it was you,” she breathes, and the air between becomes shared, and niall’s brain tunnels until all he can think about is her. her hair, her skin, her eyes, her mouth.

“c’mere,” he whispers, before he’s kissing her, and it’s hungry, a whirlwind of arms and legs as she clings to him closer, arms around his neck and hands in his hair, tugging. he walks them back into the wall, and hoists gemma up as her legs come to wrap around his waist.

he can feel his cock already start to fatten up in his joggers, pressing up against the heat between her legs. he kisses the point where her pulse is beating wildly inside her neck, the taste of her skin familiar and exotic all the same. she sighs, holding his neck there, and niall presses her against the wall, one his hands moving to touch her, fingers dipping into her leggings and panties in one go.

gemma’s head falls back against the tile when niall brushes against her folds, teasing, and her hips start to rotate in tiny, stuttering motions against him. they share spit as they kiss messily, tongues and teeth clashing.

“please,” she whispers, “please.”

niall doesn’t make her beg. he drops her down onto her feet, turning her around bending her over slightly as her hands brace the wall, pulling down her undies and grabbing onto her hips like it will kill him if he doesn’t. her back arches for him, and he leans over her, pushing down his trackies and his pants, his dick hard and aching as he nudges into her, gentle, careful. sliding into her feels like home, and hot wet heat, and they should have used a condom but niall can’t think of that right now as his vision nearly blanks, the first thrust turning him on like he’s been shocked. it’s like he’s intoxicated with her, the smell of her.

“fuck,” gemma sighs, thrust back against him, and he grapples to reach around, touching her, rubbing against her until her body involuntarily twitches against his, pleasure obvious and electric along her skin. she is sensitive and responsive in a way that is specific to gemma and only gemma, like niall is the only one who can touch her this way.

he loves this girl. fuck, he loves this girl. he thrusts into her fast and deep, cupping one of her breasts through her t shirt, neither of them patient enough to move or taking anymore clothes off as they fuck, trying to stay quiet and illicit, distantly aware of what they’re doing.

niall comes first, his spine tingly, the small of his back heavy and warm as he drives in deep. he pulls gemma up with his arm wrapped around her chest until she’s leaning back against him, and he kisses her neck, thumb against her clit until she shudders with her entire being as she orgasms, her body become supple and pliant against his.

“oh my god,” gemma says, as niall pulls out and hands her a tissue. she dabs at her thighs, pulling up her tights. she shakes her hair out, brushing it back into place with her fingers. “that was wrong. that was fucked up, ni.”

“i know,” niall says morosely, despite the humming of his entire body, “i’m sorry.”

“no, i’m sorry,” gemma says, but then she smiles giddily, like a child gotten away with something, “we need to go see my brother. and the doctor.”

niall kisses one last time before pulling her out of the door.

 

-

 

one of harry’s doctors and a nurse deliver gemma the news of harry’s condition. his official diagnosis is type one diabetes, which is treatable and curable, and gemma breathes, finding niall’s hand underneath the chair armrest in the doctor’s office. t1 diabetes apparently has run in their family for some time, and it’s diagnosed at harry’s age often.

“there’s a but, though, isn’t there,” gemma says once the initial diagnosis has settled between them. “what else is wrong with him?”

“he has an unusually low white blood cell count, which means he’s more susceptible for infection, coupled with his untreated diabetes and his weight loss could cause major problems for him. for instance, his kidneys stopped working once he got here. we were able to – fix them – so to say, but he needs to proceed with caution, and come see us if anything unusual happens.”

niall feels his heart sink. failed organs are never a good sign. he wants to curse harry for not saying anything sooner. the weight loss, the constant exhaustion, the never ending thirst, the nosebleeds – they were all signs that no one cared enough to pay attention to. guilt is a familiar friend for niall, and he revels in it.

“he’s supposed to start college in four days,” gemma says suddenly, “and i’m assuming he won’t be able to.”

“the nurse told me he woke up about an hour ago, but he’s groggy. this is a good sign. if by the end of the week he’s managed his insulin and there’s no sign of infection, he should be able to start class not this week, but next.”

“thank you,” gemma says quietly, smiling sincerely at the doctor. he shuffles slightly at having such a beautiful girl address him. niall feels much the same.

-

 

nurses filter in and out of the room at all times of the day, and niall and gemma are kicked out when visiting hours are over again and again, as if they never learn.

harry wakes up the next day.

“niall,” harry asks when gemma has left to fetch him a nurse, wincing when he pulls at his iv, “has louis been by?”

niall swallows, unable to look right at harry. the irony that the first thing harry really manages to say unprompted is about louis. “no, mate,” he says softly, embarrassed, “i haven’t heard from him.”

harry nods, and doesn’t look surprised. he doesn’t look particularly anything, but the animation and light leave his face for the rest of the day. he asks his sister and niall to leave early, saying that he’s tired and he won’t be much entertainment asleep. niall knows a dismissal when he hears one. gemma kisses her brother’s hand, promises to call their grandmother and bring him his macbook tomorrow.

louis is nothing but radio silence, and something hard and aching sinks in the pit of niall’s stomach, but he doesn’t mention it to gemma. zayn orders enough flowers to convert the entire room into a conservatory, which harry absolutely adores. whatever iciness that was between them as seemed to evaporate now that harry is awake.

“my brother is so helpless sometimes,” gemma sighs from the passenger seat of niall’s car. she hates been driven around in a town car, so he’s been driving his aston martin since she’s arrived. “obsessed with that fucking arsehole.”

“i don’t know anything about it,” niall shrugs, though he does know enough and is content with not telling gemma any of it, “i’m sorry. you and i both know i can’t control anything louis does.”

“yeah,” gemma nods, fingers tugging on her bottom lip, “but harry thinks he can. and that will hurt him more than anything because boys like louis never fucking change.”

niall doesn’t want to admit it, but he knows it’s true.

 

-

 

january creeps in with it’s gray skies and bitter wind, the type that bites into niall’s bones. it’s the day before harry is released from the hospital, and gemma has spent most of the it shopping in an effort to update her lacking winter wardrobe, and spending time with harry while niall resumed his classes. this type of pattern has a very clear expiration date, and niall knows that he will look back on her being here in london with him and crave it, despite the circumstances.

gemma dumps her bags near the foot of niall’s bed, hanging up her peacoat in his closet. he looks up from where he is untying his shoes by the bed and watches as she discovers an unopened box of perfume and a tiffany’s necklace.

she turns around slowly, “are these for me?”

niall nods, not sure if she is annoyed or receiving of them, her face not giving anything away. she holds them in her hands like she doesn’t recognise them, like they’re a foreign concept.

gemma looks up suddenly, “i’ve never had feelings like the ones i have for you,” she says so quietly niall could have pretended to misheard her. he doesn’t, though. she laughs under her breath, placing the gifts back inside the closet shelf. “i don’t even like gifts.”

“i’m sorry,” niall swallows, he offers a hand that falls short of a gesture, “throw them out.”

“no,” she shakes her head, “you misunderstand. i don’t usually like gifts. but from you it means...”

“what?” he asks and then tries to laugh, “that i’m bloody gone for you?”

“usually when i disappear for a couple months to travel, any boy i spend my time with forgets all about me. which has suited me, until you came along.”

“gemma,” niall shakes his head again, like he’s trying to shake his thoughts out of his head. he can feel his cheeks flaming hot, “how could anyone forget a girl like you.”

“i don’t know,” she laughs, but it sounds slightly hysterical, like she doesn’t believe it, “but i don’t care. what matters is that you didn’t.”

she slips her cashmere cardigan off her shoulders, shrugging out of her silk chemise until she’s only left in a pair of opaque tights and a bra that matches the colour of her skin. the light from niall’s window casts a shadow along her ribcage, the way it concaves between her breasts. she saunters over to him, crawling up onto his bed until their faces are only centimetres away. her breath smells like mint and cigarette.

she leans over him, her long silken hair falling over her shoulder and brushing against his arm. her large dark eyes look at him, and he’s close enough he can see the faint smattering of freckles amongst her nose. the silence is heavy with intimacy as they look at one another, before she moves closer, one of her hands on his cheek.

“hi,” she whispers, pushing him back against his bed and straddling over one of his legs. her hair falls in cascades around her as she leans down, mouth inches away from his. niall licks his lips, heart pumping.

he watches as gemma runs a hand down from his chest to cup his dick, fingers pressing gently into his balls before she drags her hand up against to the neck of his shirt, toying with it. her eyes have become weighty, her lids lowered with lust as she looks at him, curious to see if he understands her game.

he does. gemma tugs on his shirt, pulling it off over his head and throwing it on the ground, wetting her fingertips in her mouth and dragging them down the centre of his naked chest. she works on his jeans next, letting niall kick them off himself before she swings her leg back over, seating herself firmly on him. niall sighs deeply, wanting to touch, but not sure if he’s allowed to. he can see her nipples are hard through her bra, her boobs nearly tumbling out of the cup. there are goose pimples all over her skin when he reaches a hand up, touching her clavicle and then outlining the shape of her breast, his touch feather light.

“you’re beautiful,” he mumbles and she smiles. he sits up then, brushing her hair back from his shoulder, reaching around and finding the clasp to her bra, unhooking it, pulling the straps down her arms and sliding it off. she watches with her lips parted, tongue wetting them every so often, as he bends down tastes her skin, the scent of her body soap, and something so distinctly gemma.

“we should fuck,” she murmurs quietly. niall feels his cock as it throbs with the way her voice sounds, how it sends a shiver down his spine.

“yeah,” he nods, inhaling through his nose. he flips her on her he back then in a flurry of dark hair and legs tangling, his hands coming up to pet the jut of her hip bones through her tights, finding the elastic and peeling them off slowly down her legs. “but first i’m going to make you come.”

she laughs then, the sound reverberating through her chest and belly. he touches her soft legs, the barely there feel of hair growing back around her knees, the way the skin under her thighs is supple to his touch, soft like he’s never known before. she looks down through her hooded eyes, chin tucked to her chest, her naked self on glorious display before him.

he makes a move to pull off the sleek pale undies but her hand flies out and catches his wrist to stop him.

“no,” gemma says, a dark, impish look on her face. “work around them.”

he grins, yanking her suddenly by the hips and pulling her down the bed, eliciting a quiet squeal of surprise and a bright flash of a smile. he bends down, feeling his dick twitch in his pants as it hangs between them, before pressing a kiss to her cunt, breathing slightly, inhaling the smell of her. everything about this is thick with anticipation and tension and is so fucking strange that niall feels drunk with the feeling of it, heady with the scent of her. he pulls her panties to the side with his finger, kissing her again, his touch soft, a shadow, then flicking his tongue out to taste her.

he can hear her sigh softly, and then gasp when he presses a finger into her, his mouth working around his hand as he starts to pressing inside of her slowly. gemma’s hands come to thread through his hair as she pulls, directing him, reigning him about like he’s some horse – and niall finds himself liking it. he wants to be told what to do. he wants her to be in charge. gemma is older, and smarter, and most likely leagues more experienced than he is – and he likes that.

niall knows he’s getting himself lost between her legs, his fingers working in tandem with his tongue as he licks her out, breathing through his nose. the panties pose as an obstacle, but one he knows she wants there on purpose; another power play. he turns suddenly, so she doesn’t expect it, his mouth against her thigh and biting down gently, sucking a bruise into her unblemished skin there, his fingers curling inside of her, pressing at a spot that makes her legs seize and wrap around his head.

gemma shudders around him suddenly, her back nearly arching off the bed as she presses his face into her cunt, before shivering again and relaxing like a limpet. he sits up, wiping his mouth, sliding her leg off his shoulder. she looks like a mess, but something is vulnerable and attractive about her like this, spread out and flushed pink, her fingers playing with the saliva he left on her thigh as she traces the bruise.

“c’mere,” she whispers throatily, and then she pulls niall down against her, kissing her taste right out of his mouth. gemma will never fail to impress and challenge him. she pulls him back by the hair at the nape of his neck, her tongue poking out and licking his lips once. “you want to fuck me now?”

yes, niall thinks. yes, he does.

 

-

“you’ve got this song inside of you,” she whispers to him later that night, when she’s showered and smelling like roses. her wet hair tickles his skin. she turns him over to his side and sidles up behind to him, his back a broad expanse she wraps an arm around, pressing her naked chest up against him.

“i think we call that a heartbeat, gemma,” niall can’t keep the smile out of his voice.

“no, it’s different,” she says after a moment, “it’s like...your body is constantly humming. i can hear it,” she presses the place just below his heart, “here.”

if love is the most destructive thing a person can do, then niall is first in line, hands open. he lies there, sleepy with affection and something akin to love as gemma traces patterns into his back. for the first time in months, he sleeps soundly until the next day.

 

-

 

harry only stays a fortnight with them in chelsea before a car is called to take him back to st. peter’s. it’s his final term, and he’s missed a week of school already, but he’s managed to put some weight back on his frame, and there’s more colour in his cheeks, making him look alive.

“thank you,” niall turns around to find harry standing in the archway by the grand staircase, presumably ready for his driver.

“harry – what,” niall shakes his head, smiling but harry regards him seriously. niall stands up from where he was doodling on his ipad, and gives harry a hug, his arms nearly overlapping as they wrap around his slender waist. “what are you on about, mate?”

“you know,” harry says seriously, “you know what you did. thanks.”

niall does know: he treated harry like family when he didn’t have to. it isn’t uncommon, when the company they keep are only known for the lack of empathy and ability to binge drink, to be abandoned when you’re not available for a good laugh. but niall is different from them. “don’t worry about it. come up on some of the weekends, we’ll hit the city.”

he laughs, hand slapping over his mouth, “sounds ace,” he says, then shoulders his bag, “ta.”

niall salutes him, listening to the door on the first floor close neatly in his wake.

 

-

 

sure as clockwork and appearing like a devil, niall comes home to find louis sitting outside his house, leaning against his jag with a cigarette dangling from his mouth.

“hey,” louis says, his voice of careful bravado, “listen, niall – “

“mate,” niall nods, feeling his mouth bend into a smile regardless, “where’re you been off to?”

louis smiles easily, shrugging, “class, spliffs, drinks with the boys, as per usual,” he lists carelessly, and niall pictures it, the glamorous facade louis leads, part of it just the effortless grace of who he is, part of it a defence mechanism. don’t get too close to louis tomlinson, the rumour goes, he burns brighter than the sun.

“sounds like your usual trouble,” niall smirks, taking a cigarette when louis offers him. “liam invited me up to derbyshire for the weekend, you going, too?”

“‘course i am,” louis smiles, “it’s going to be great fun, just the boys. anything for li.”

niall smokes, not particularly enjoying the taste, but bracing himself for what louis is leading to. it’s always loving banter with lou, until it’s suddenly not.

“look,” louis says after he stubs his cigarette, tossing it onto the street and away from niall’s driveway. “i wanted to ask you how – how harry was – “

niall shakes his head, “don’t ask me how he is, i don’t know.”

“don’t be a tit, i know you were with him every bloody day,” louis snaps, but his face is still relaxed, and he rolls his eyes. “he’s not answering his phone.”

niall doesn’t get to respond because gemma steps out the front door, her bag slung around her shoulder, wrapped up in a structured black military jacket, her hair pulled up ontop of her head. she immediately focuses in on louis, her eyes narrowing.

“oh,” she says, her tone icy and short, “and do what pleasure do i owe in order to see you, tomlinson?”

“easy, gemma,” louis smirks, “can’t resist a beautiful face, can i?”

“isn’t that half your problem?” gemma snaps, her smile dropping. “i want you to leave my brother alone. he doesn’t want to talk to you.”

“the last time you saw your brother was over a year ago,” louis snarls, “you don’t even know him. i was the one who took him in while you couldn’t give a fuck even to call. he told me, gemma. can’t i miss him?”

“you miss manipulating him,” gemma argues, her voice cutting, “and anyway, he doesn’t want to talk to you. if you knew how to love anyone, louis, it would have been harry. you would have visited him when he was sick. instead you fucked off like the coward you are.”

“fuck you,” louis says, and niall finds himself pressing a hand back against louis’ blazer as a simple reminder. louis rounds on him, eyes flashing. “niall, so thirsty for someone to throw you a bone you turn on me. good friend, you are.”

“it doesn’t even matter, louis,” gemma says, and her voice has dropped down to something sad, and sympathetic, her hand opening the passenger seat of niall’s car, “he’s gone back to france to finish his schooling. he’s not here anymore.”

“what do you mean he’s not here?” louis has lost his footing, stepping back. he stares between them like he doesn’t understand. “he can’t have left.”

“he can, actually,” gemma says as she folds her into the aston martin, “he wasn’t healthy enough here. he needed to go home. he’s not coming back.”

“ni,” louis turns, searching for the fallacies in gemma’s words. his eyes are large and blue, disbelief and hurt evident in his expression. louis’ moods change so quickly it gives niall whiplash. “niall, tell me that’s not true.”

niall nods, swallowing thickly, “he did, lou. yesterday morning,” and because he can’t help himself, he reaches out, holding onto louis’ shoulder, “look, i’m sorry, mate. but maybe it’s best if you two don’t see each other for a while anyway.”

“fuck,” his voice shakes, and louis comes to cup his mouth. gemma closes the door neatly, a clear signal that it’s time for them to go, and niall presses louis close into his side, holding him there for a moment, feeling protective of him, even sad for him. he doesn’t know any better, niall thinks, but he should have. “fuck, he’s gone.”

“yeah,” niall nods, “yeah. he is.”

 

-

 

they’re driving out to a studio in notting hill where gemma’s got a meeting with a jewellery designer who wants to shoot her. when niall finally finds parking, she presses her hand against his over the shift. niall pauses, watching the rain cascade around them, slicking his windshield, and then without turning to look at her, he says, “i understand why you did that.”

“you do,” gemma breathes, relieved, “i’m sorry. i should have told you what i was thinking. the last day, when harry and i left the hospital, we change his phone number, and threw everything else out so he couldn't be contacted. he promised he wouldn't seek louis out, and tomlinson is none the wiser.”

“you think he’s going to hold that promise?” niall asks honestly, and gemma nods, her mouth turned down in the corners.

“i do,” she says, and then she clears her throat. “harry knows he needs a clean slate, and he - he doesn't know louis has asked for him. i won't allow it any longer. you understand, though, don’t you?”

“yeah, i do,” niall repeats for gemma, for her reassurance, “i would have done anything for my sister.”

“i know, ni,” gemma says sadly, her hand brushing down his shoulder softly, “he’s all i have.”

“you’ve got to protect that,” niall nods, “protect what your have with him.”

 

-

 

annie is alive inside of niall’s memory, and that is where she will be for the rest of his life.

once, niall had almost drowned in a creek by their house the summer before his first year at st. peter’s. it was the first time they’d be going to separate schools, and niall was secretly terrified. he remembers the softness of that feeling, the easiness of being so scared of something so obvious. annie swam like she was born a fish, pulling niall’s floundering body out of the water and onto a patch of dead grass, where he sputtered and flopped about. her remembers looking up at the sun through her red hair, and how it seemed to glow.

once, annie decided she would follow their father in the family business and not attend university. this was a sacrifice she made for niall, because he wasn’t interested in business and he wasn’t interested in breweries and he didn’t get on well with his father as much as she did.

annie was the first twin, the eldest by twenty three minutes, the ambitious twin, the star child. niall had never minded. in his sister’s mind, niall was always important. now, these unspoken responsibilities will fall to him, and if he rejects it, then to his cousins, which would estrange the family. he’s still waiting for the call from his father about when he’s due to grow up.

once, annie had told him he could do whatever he wanted to do. she told him to never let anyone boss him around, that he was worth more than she could see, that he was the single best person she ever knew. annie loved him in a way no one else had: unconditionally. niall has known that type of love and niall has watched as it has been ripped away from him, and there are no words for that type of loss.

once, annie died. and niall remembers the split second before the crash, before spinning out and landing upside down into the bog next to the road. they had been talking about music, annie reaching for the dial and swerving, and niall had swatted her hand out of way like they always had, taking every single second of that car ride for granted like she was going to be in his life forever. if he could, he’d take it all back. sometimes he scares himself because he knows he would trade her life for his without even thinking it. he remembers the split second before she died, the way she had turned to look at him, blinking once, maybe a smile on her face, but maybe not. niall will never know. he walks around living his life knowing all of this.

once, annie died, and niall survived. she’ll never leave him, not quite, always alive in his muscles and her favourite music and the way wind picks up around him like its telling him to hurry up. it’s too painful to retrace his childhood, to go back home, but there’s a light flickering somewhere, burning on, and niall is too scared to name it, but he knows that it’s hope.

 

-

 

niall and gemma go harry’s leaving ceremony, even though he won’t get his actual results until july, and after that, niall promises he’ll never come back to this st. peter's grounds again.

“you’re fucking finished now, aren’t you?” he smiles, wrapping a loose arm around harry’s neck and ruffling his hair. harry laughs, pushing him off and fixing his fancy dress. “happy to be?”

“yeah,” harry nods, looking over the great lawn where students are dispersing, the impressive boast of st. peter’s great hall a mere backdrop behind him. gemma comes up, wearing all white and looking nearly pearlescent, wrapping her arms around her brother, kissing the side of his head.

“you want to look around before we leave?” she asks them, muttering something in french to harry, making him sputter and laugh.

niall shakes his head. “no, let’s head back to the city.”

so they do. harry waves to a few people niall doesn’t recognise before shuffling his long body into the back of niall’s car, complaining about space. the sun is beginning to set behind them as niall revs the engine obnoxiously just to get a rise out of gemma, who rolls her eyes and pinches the side of his arm.

as st. peter’s disappears from view, niall does not look back.

 

-

 


	6. Golden Boys.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The last chapter! Please heed the warnings on this, for it is a wild ride of triggers and caution. 
> 
> Firstly, and most importantly, please heed the major character death. This story contains themes of infidelity, alcoholic tendencies and drug dependency, past depictions of drug rehabilitation, as well as in one part, copious drug use and unsafe sex. There is discussion of an off-screen abortion by an of-age character.
> 
> Secondly very important, this chapter contains one scene of domestic dispute/abuse. These relationships depicted are rarely healthy and can be very manipulative. There are discussions and descriptions of medical issues! This can give me some creeps sometimes, so there's a warning for it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone. This was supposed to be 15k, now nearly 50k, it's obvious I had a really hard time saying goodbye.
> 
> To Lizz, my beta till the end. Three years and we're still going strong. And to Sophie, my star.
> 
> Lastly, to everyone who has read, or continues to read Coeur d'Enfants, thank you, thank you, and please, come talk to me over on tumblr @odetopsych-e, because i definitely want to hear any comments/opinions/general chat.

january / february 2016

“morning,” gemma’s voice is low and playful in niall’s ear as he wakes up. the sun is in the sky and filters through niall’s bedroom window; it’s a horrible tease for january, and the rays give off no heat. it will be gone in a few hours and replaced by a dark, tepid gray swirl of winter cloud.

it’s a sunday, because niall isn’t up before dark, for once not met by the pink clouds of a work week that starts at five in the morning. he rolls over, wiping his mouth on the back of his hand, the softness of his duvet taunting him back into sleep.

he nearly swallows a tangle of long dark hair and he blinks, looking up to stare at the line of gemma’s jaw, the curve of her chin. she must be smiling, from the dimple in her cheek, and he reaches one finger up to poke it.

“you’re awake, finally,” she sighs with faux exasperation, rolling in close to him, her hand drifting under the cotton sheet and running up the side of his bum. she’s always horny in the morning and niall smiles, still too gone to form words. “so something interesting has happened.”

interesting, for gemma, is always different. in the last two years they’re been to fourteen countries, twenty six cities, and nearly fucked in a plane en route to nyc for the new years previous. her mind is always on the next thing, or the thing after, whether or not that’s a day or a month or year in advance: niall has fallen in love with a girl who has left pieces of her heart in different parts of the world. he’s spent twenty six months trying to collect them all back.

niall has stopped guessing what’s on her mind. he’s found it’s nearly always outpaces his own. so he hums, mouth biting gently on the jut of her chin, kissing the side of her smile. she runs her fingers through the hair near his forehead, pushing it back away from his face.

“do you think there’s another life after this, or that we have only this one to live and we must do it really really well because it’s the only one we’ve got?” she asks, and niall frowns, thinking.

he pushes up onto his elbows, “well, dunno,” he muses for a moment, and she looks to him, her large eyes expectant, “mam always took us to church. suppose i believe there’s an afterlife. that there is something after this.”

“you know i’m not catholic,” gemma says, and it sounds defensive, because they’ve had this conversation before.

niall shrugs, “i know that,” he rubs the back of his head, which is probably in a right state because he went to bed with wet hair the night before. “what brought this on?”

her face exposes something strange then, something niall doesn’t often see in her: shyness, embarrassment, fear. he feels himself sit up, and then she does too, biting her lip. he’s not sure why he’s nervous, except for the fear that she’s going to tell him something awful. since annie passed three years before, he’s not been good with receiving bad news.

“gemma,” niall says slowly, “whatever is, just tell me.”

“i had a pee this morning,” gemma starts, and niall wants to rebuttal, _so what_ , except that she isn’t finished. “and i also took a pregnancy test. and i’m pregnant.”

he can feel the exact moment his mind blanks, and something inside of him knows that he’ll remember this place in time for the rest of his life: the way gemma’s hair was falling over his shoulder, her teeth tugging on her bottom lip nervously, the wings of her high cheekbone tinged pink, the sleepy taste in niall’s mouth, how his clammy hands gripped his thighs. everything stills for a minute, and then speeds up again, giving niall whiplash.

“preg – you’re serious?” niall breathes, and gemma nods, taking a deep breath.

“if you want – if you think we should get rid of it i can call now and – “ she says nervous, and it’s like everything blooming in his gut burns down again in a split second at her words. he can’t shake his head no fast enough.

“no – get rid of it? no. god, no,” niall shakes his head again, “i don’t want that. do you?”

“no,” gemma says, and as she smiles, niall notices her eyes have become cloudy and wet. “i don’t want that. i want you, and this baby and – “

“fuck,” niall knows he sounds like a tit – unable to keep the awe out of his voice. his hands go to gemma’s flat, unforgiving abdomen, “a baby.”

“yes, ni,” gemma laughs, “a real baby.”

she crawls into his lap, her legs on either side of his hips. her smile and luminous and bright and niall thinks something he’s never thought before; i hope that baby has her smile. his smile is manufactured, fake, created by orthodontia; gemma’s is pearlescent white and individual and beautiful. she is beautiful.

she kisses him then, nipping at his lower lip, subtly pressing down into his groin. he can feel her hand wrap around his back and curl her fingers into the hairs on the base of his neck, pulling, positioning him how she wants.

“i’m going to get really big,” gemma whispers into his mouth, “will you still fuck me?”

  
niall grabs bum in both hands, squeezing, pressing her closer to him. “what kind of question is that? course i will.”

“i’ll have to be in charge,” she laughs, other hand reaching around to unclip her bra, slipping it off her shoulders, her pale breasts goose bumping against the air. “for the sake of the baby.”  
“it’s not like that’s any different now,” niall laughs quietly, and gemma smiles sincerely, eyes shining.

they spend the rest of the morning in between the sheets, tangled in each other.

-

it’s as if some has taken niall’s world and shifted it on it’s side, and he wakes up in the morning looking at the same view but feeling entirely different. he hasn’t told anyone, of course: not his father, who he sees at the head office between his business trips, not his mother, whom he emails enough; not his friends. not even zayn. not even harry.

that is gemma’s doing; she’s the one who wants to keep a secret, let it sink in, get a grip on what the fuck is about to happen to their lives before everyone else starts talking about it behind their backs. niall knows she’s right: he’s just turned twenty-one this past september, and she’s twenty four. they’re young, still. people will talk, surely.

still, he’s giddy with it. the excitement has him thinking about her twenty four seven, how gemma is doing, how she’s feeling, and he can’t help but find the conversation goes that way. he thinks about this mystery baby, who will be here in a little less than nine months; what they will look like. he tries to remember newborns he’s interacted with in the past but as a kid and a teenager he’s always avoided newborns because they were tiny, and fragile, and scary.

and they are scary. if excitement was his main thought during the day then fear is what visits him late at night, when he’s finished paperwork and rubbed his eyes, groaning at the time on the office clock, when gemma is fast asleep beside him and he’s wide awake, thinking about all the things he needs to do, needs to change, needs to be better at.

  
-

  
gemma takes it all in stride; of course she does. niall envies that about her sometimes: the easy, certain way she encounters things, the effortless grace in which she accepts what life throws at her. niall is clumsy and sometimes awkward with surprises, and this is the ultimate one.

he takes the short trip across london bridge to their flat in bermondsey one day during his lunch hour to find her bundled up in one of his jumpers, sitting on her perch on the balcony over looking the thames, a large monthly calendar on her lap, her fingers pink and bitten cold.

“it’s freezin’ out here, gem,” he murmurs, kissing her forehead. its’ a repetitive greeting niall has for gemma, as she alway seems to like it best right out on the water, despite the brittle temperatures.

she smiles, “what’re you doing home? i was just about to pop out for a meeting with lou teasdale.”

“i saw something on the way to lunch, and i know you said not to but i couldn’t help it – i had to get them,” he explains hurriedly, producing a small bag from _petit bataeu_. gemma takes the structured bag and looks inside, her fingers dangling on two tiny booties.

“oh my god,” she whispers quietly, before dropping them neatly in the bag. she pushes the calendar off her lap, standing up to hug him. “they’re beautiful.”

“i’m glad you like them,” he says, and when she pulls away, there are tears in her eyes, one catching on niall’s thumb as he goes to wipe they away. “hey, i didn’t mean to make you cry – “

“no,” gemma shakes her head, smiling, “these are happy tears.”

niall can’t keep the grin off his face, tucking a strand of her hair behind her shoulder, “i think this is the happiest i’ve been in a long time.”

“fuck,” gemma cries, covering her mouth. she shakes his head like she’s trying to scramble her thoughts, and then wipes at her face with her sleeve. “me too, ni."

  
-

january somehow feels colder after that. niall doesn't know how to explain it otherwise: he can never truly warm even in a steaming shower, shivering against the tiles. his hands are always purple and feel like ice blocks. gemma's side of the bed remains vacant, untouched.

it's not unusual for her to return late: she has parties to go to and events to attend and sometimes she stays late at her own job at _harpers bazaar_ , in the middle of a project. but now niall can't help but notice, stay awake waiting, hoping she'll return safety. he cannot help that he smells her breath when she sneaks into bed to kiss him goodnight. this is not distrust, he tells himself.

he's dying to tell his family, his friends, so excited and nervous for this baby that he can barely contain himself. gemma knows this and she's so well practiced in soothing niall, rendering him complacent and soft; we'll tell them soon, in due time, love.

-

maybe they were all warning signs, cries for help gemma was leaving around for him like clues to a mystery game. niall didn't win.

they break on a tuesday.

it's morning as niall buttons his ralph lauren dress shirt, something gemma picked out ages ago when he started working for his father after he finished university. he loops his tie around and eyes the empty bed with stiff, angry confusion. it’s just before dawn, and their bedroom is bathed in milky, red sunrise.

gemma slips in as he tying his oxfords, her heels clicking as they swing between her fingers. she stands in the corner of their bedroom, hair mussed, cheeks bitten bright pink from the wind. for a moment it’s quiet between them.

then, “hi," she says meekly, an offering. usually niall would take it, as gemma is rarely apologetic about anything, and she seems more french when she’s angry. but this is different. "i got caught up with the girls."

niall shrugs, trying for indifference, hoping maybe this will all shake off and won’t shove it’s way into an argument. “you could have called,” he mutters quietly, finding their polished hardwood floors suddenly interesting. he never thought he’d be this type in a relationship, angry over petty shit like this, but here they are.

“sorry,” she nods, and his eyes narrow on the way her whole body sways, like her limbs have been out dancing her worries away, tired and pliant, weak with way the night treated her. she covers her mouth over a hiccup, a cough, maybe.

“are you - gemma, have you been drinking?” niall hears the incredulity in his voice, the outrage, his cheeks heating as gemma throws her heels down. “what the fuck, gem?”

“what do you mean, what the fuck? i can have a drink if i want,” gemma shrugs, no longer the apologetic mouse she appeared to be in the doorway but now cruel, apathetic as she shrugs out of her dress, her slip. she tosses them on the floor, walking defiantly to the other side of the bed in just her undergarments. “it was just the girls,” she adds, as if it occurred to her as an afterthought. niall doesn’t even want to dissect what her hesitation could mean.

he cannot believe her, “you’re serious,” he says, dumbfounded, “you’re with child. you can’t drink when you’re with child. it could hurt the - “

“the baby?” gemma laughs, but it’s harsh, mean, the way the word shoots out of her mouth, like it’s meant to hurt.

“why do you say it like that,” he murmurs, rage aching in his throat, causing his voice to crack. “why d’ya say, ‘baby’ like that - like it doesn’t matter - “

gemma shrugs, breaking eye contact, one of her knees on the bed.

“why’re you shrugging?” niall yells, and in the back of his head he knows that it’s nearly five in the morning and his new neighbours might raise a fuss but he can’t bring himself to care - “this isn’t something you store in the back of your closet once you’re done with it, you understand? this is a fucking baby, a child, a life - “

“yes!” gemma cries, throwing her hands up, “yes, a child, exactly. how come you aren’t fucking terrified at the prospect that our lives will never be the same, ni?”

“me? me?” niall sputters, “you’ve got it all wrong, love. i’m fucking goin’ crazy, i can’t think about anything else - i can’t think about anyone else. and i can’t fucking believe you were so reckless. that was stupid, what you did, gemma.”

“it’s my body,” gemma says, and niall can tell it’s taken a turn in the conversation where he won’t get any more words in edgewise. he feels his eyes well up in frustration, his throat start to close, but he doesn’t cry. he finds his black suit jacket and slings it on, scarf around his neck to protect against the cold.

“you’re right, gem,” he says quietly by the door, hand on the knob, “it’s your body. but consider it’s not just about you, anymore.”

gemma doesn’t respond, but niall doesn’t expect her to: three years together will teach you things about them. not everything, a small snide voice says in niall’s head as he begins his short walk to work, no one is everything they seem.

-

he thinks about it all day while he sits behind his desk making phone calls, a clear view of the thames and the financial district visible from his office. he father rings in at one point from their office in dublin before he flies out to do business with colleagues in hong kong. niall is distracted at best. most days he tries to pay attention to the graphs and marketing team as they chatter endlessly into his ear, tries to understand the very business that has put their family where they are today. but it’s hard. he was not the child cut out for this job, this responsibility.

maybe he shouldn’t have bought the booties, he thinks. he wants to curse himself. it was too much, too soon. he shouldn’t have gotten so excited. he should have waited, made sure gemma was sure before he got aggressive about the baby.

he shouldn’t have yelled at her this morning. niall pictures her face in his head a thousand times before noon, the way it shuttered with hurt and as she closed herself off from him, gemma’s defense mechanisms already in place. when his assistant goes out to get him something to eat, he can’t stomach it, even though he doesn’t mind wasabi on a bad day.

niall wants to call her, but he holds back. gemma will need her space. he should give her time. he thinks about sending flowers then decides against it; that was zayn’s card when he fucked up, which admittedly was often. malia’s home office was often mistaken for a conservatory whenever the malik’s had dinner parties.

on his short walk home to their new flat in bermondsey he passes petit bataeu again, eyes the pretty blue and lavender singlets in the window and keeps walking.

-

  
their flat is dark, the kitchen clean and unused, just like the housekeeper leaves it by mid-morning after they’ve both gone to work. the living room is lit only by the lights of the city outside, bleeding in from the large bay window that showcases the river, something gemma had loved about the place when they first moved into together.

she’s in the bath from the light in the bathroom and the sound of the water. niall sighs, shrugging out of his suit jacket and hanging up his slacks as he sips out of them, groping for a pair of sleep pants on the ground. the room is a strange, intimate purple from where gemma has thrown a scarf over her bedside lampshade.

there’s medication on the table by her bedside that he doesn’t recognise, but he doesn’t touch it, not wanting to spark anymore arguments. it’s only just after eight, but he’s tired and it’s been dark since four thirty today, so he lies down on top of the duvet, playing with his hands, waiting for her to emerge from the bath.

usually gemma would meet him after work and they’d go out into the city for dinner, since they’re both rubbish at cooking and usually don’t bother. maybe she’d corral his sorry, tired arse into going out for drinks after, talking about her day and her co-workers and showing him plans of future trips they’re taking that year. sometimes they’d end up dancing, or maybe taking the long way home down south bank, warm with vodka and wrapped up in each other. to be at home by eight tonight seems unnatural to their usual evening, and niall feels out of place on their bed.

when she does finally emerge, she’s wearing one of his t shirts and a pair of soft, plain cotton underwear, the kind he loves when she’s lounging during the week and can’t be bothered to put on decligee. her hair, cut to her shoulders this past year, is wet and tumbles to her side of her head like a dark wave.

he sits up, and she smiles, though it pulls in the corners. he thinks it’s apologetic, the way she comes to him, sitting on her side of the bed, curling up with her arms around her knees.

“i’m sorry,” niall murmurs, rubbing a hand through his hair, “i shouldn’t have spoken to you that way. and look - i know there are some things that need adjustment, our lives are gonna change with the baby but - gemma? gemma, why are you crying?”

gemma turns away from him, tears slipping down her cheek and in between her breasts. niall imagines them creating a pool in her bellybutton. she wipes at her face, but to no avail; the tears keep falling as if reporting to their own agenda. “i know you’re sorry,” she says throatily, her voice thick, “but you’re still just talking about the baby.”

“what - gem,” niall starts, hoping this isn’t another argument, “i thought that this was about - “

“no, ni,” gemma shakes her head, “it’s about me, and the fact that i’m not ready for this child, and you, somehow, magically are.”

“we can talk about this,” niall rationalises, taking a deep breath, trying to steer his brain in the right direction, “we can figure it all out.”

but gemma shakes her head, looking at him with swollen eyes, and niall realises with lead in his gut that she’s been possibly crying all day, her face pink and pinched unhappily, “no,” she murmurs, her voice so muddled by her crying that it comes out distorted, small. “ i’m not, - i wasn’t ready for a child.”

“gemma,” niall says, but her name sounds like a warning, a question, a threat, all at once, and this is another moment in the span of three weeks he knows he’ll remember forever: the way gemma looked at him, her skin cast in purple light, how small and huddled she appeared on the bed, her wet hair pushed behind her ear. this he will never forget, how tangible her sorrow was, how he wanted to reach out and hold her if only it wouldn’t hurt himself in the process. the helplessness, god, he’ll remember.

“i got an abortion this afternoon,” she says, her words like a bomb being let off inside of him, tearing at his insides, clawing at his throat, his heart. it hurts. it fucking hurts. “the baby is gone.”

he can feel himself start to cry, his face screwing up in that horrid, childish way it does when he use to skin his knee as a kid or became the wrong kind of drunk when he was a teenager, “no, please, don’t say you did that.”

gemma bites her lip, teeth leaving red indents in her wake, “i’m sorry. i can’t tell you how fucking sorry i am for this. i am. i’m sorry.”

niall feels himself push himself out of bed like someone else is moving his body. he stands in a stupid sleeveless st. peter’s alumni shirt and old sleep pants with his hand over his mouth, feeling like he might choke.

“don’t look at me like that,” gemma begs, eyes cast down, and niall makes a strange noise, words tangled on his tongue but unable to define themselves.

“i don’t know how i’m supposed to look at you like,” niall spits out finally, his voice rough with the sobs he’s withholding, his chest shaking with it, “i can’t believe you did this.”

“what was i suppose to do?” she yells, throwing up her hands, “raise a child i didn’t want?”

“yes!” niall yells back, and then shakes his head, “no! no. but fuck - you were suppose to tell me. why didn’t you open your fucking mouth and tell me!”

“i’m sorry! you just - you were so fucking excited for this baby and i didn’t - i’m not cut out for this. i’ve never wanted children, or a boyfriend, or anything to tie me down.”

“am i just something that ties you down?” niall asks, and he holds his palm against his heart, like it hurts. “is that all i fucking am?”

“never, niall,” gemma argues, her voice firm, a steel backbone railing against his panicked, injured, protests. he can taste the metal, he can taste it between his teeth. “i love you.”

“don’t tell me you love me right after you tell me you aborted our child,” niall spits, watches as gemma’s face falls, the beauty of her eyes red and swollen, her mouth bitten, her cheeks stained. she looks like she’s seen war and back. she looks like she is the war.

“i have a right to decide whether i carry a child or not,” she says quietly, sniffling.

“i know,” niall shakes his head, throwing his hands into his hair, “it’s not about that. i don’t understand where i was factored out of this decision. why i didn’t matter enough to be considered for an opinion.”

“i’m sorry,” she says softly, all the fight out of her voice, and she sounds terribly, terribly sad, “i wish none of this ever happened.”

“but it did happen,” niall says harshly, his voice curt even to his own ears. he rubs at his eyes, looking at the bed before grabbing his pillow, “i’ll be out on the couch.”

“ni, no,” gemma cries, hurrying to him, but he puts his hand out to prevent her from coming any closer, not daring to look at her in case he might break down again. his chest heaves once; his lungs feel like they’ve been trampled on.  
“i can’t right now,” he says quietly, and it sounds like he’s begging, “please.”

he makes a pitiful bed on their new sofa, one that wraps around the glass coffee table, laden with copies of harper’s bazaar that gemma had worked on personally. it’s nearly impossible for niall to fall asleep, as the light from the city are constantly invading his line of sight, like shooting stars passing through the dark canvas of his closed eyelids.

-

he has every right to call in to work. anyone there can do his job easily, the irony of his last name giving him the corner office and the cushy chair behind the mahogany desk is the only thing that separates him from the associates, the marketing team, the accountants, the temps. it is no small secret that little horan jr, who they all watched grow up, is now their boss.

he doesn’t call in, though. he gets up at forty five past four in the morning like he does every weekday morning, dressed and ready to go by five fifteen. he does not eye gemma’s sleep form on the bed, curled up around several used tissues, hugging his side of the bed. he wants so badly to go to her, comfort her, it’s almost a natural instinct.

he doesn’t. this time, he is the one who is hurt. this time, she needs to come to him. he fears, deep inside in his heart, that she won’t.

niall tries to focus at work, shifting paperwork, making phone calls and compiling emails, but it’s difficult. he’s still as distracted as he was before, in the past couple of weeks. this time, however, it’s with a pain in chest that doesn’t seem to abade. it crawls up his throat like an infection, making him choke on his lunch. he doesn’t eat.

he wants to email his mum, or call her, maybe, and explain the whole damned thing. he wants to confess everything, gemma, the baby, the loss of the baby, how he yelled and sounded like his father. he wants to tell her all of this, but they aren’t that type of family anymore, and his mother holds niall at a distance, scared that if she gets too close to him she might lose him, too. he wishes, not for the first time, that his sister was here; he tries to imagine what she’d say to him but fails to conceive a single response.

he thinks of zayn, or liam and louis, what they would say. zayn would look guilty, naturally, and he’d reserve a table for them at one of his family private lounges in mayfair, or perhaps take him up to the secret restaurant at the top of the gerkin and lavish niall like he lavishes everyone else, showering them with gifts, praise, empty promises. liam would whisk them away for a weekend in the country, thinks that grass and trees and fresh air heal all, always convinced that the city is a toxic, stewing cesspit; liam has always been especially talented at escaping.

louis would buy him a drink. louis would buy him six drinks, then a bottle of champagne worth a hundred thousand, at least, and he would hand to niall with a steady hand and say, “smash it,” because louis only knows how to make himself feel better by destroying things. they would drive around drunk, perhaps like they used to when they were trapped in surrey during their education, seeing who can wrap their car around a tree first. he would make niall feel like he was burning alive, like nothing mattered.

he should text them, at least. it’s been a few weeks since he’s heard from them all, busy as they are now that they’re suppose to function now as proper adults. niall can’t help but admit that he misses his best mates, that he’s shunned them in favour of gemma and the baby.

niall’s phone remains turned on, face up on his desk. gemma doesn’t call.

-

niall goes out that night alone.

he doesn’t call the lads, nor does he call other mates in his irish circle, eoghan or bressie, despite the fact they’re always up for a good laugh and a stiff drink. he goes to one of the bars that gemma loves, particularly, and orders himself a scotch despite hating the way it tastes. this is a new type of masochistic behavior he’s taken on, and he knows it, but fear keeps him away from going back to bermondsey.

fear of what he’ll find, of what gemma will say, what will lie between them now.

he’s too drunk to navigate himself back to bermondsey, so he has one of the bartenders discreetly call him a cab and he rides home with his head against the window, watching london blur together.

-

it’s later than he thought, but gemma is still awake when he lets himself in. the flat looks clean, untouched, almost unlived in; he never noticed this until right now. he stumbles once, then regains his step, trying to creep quietly into the bedroom to change. he hopes, distantly, that gemma is asleep, or perhaps better, not there at all.

she is, of course, there, and it looks like she’s been crying again. something low and heavy swoops in his gut at the sight of her, how pretty she is, how heavy the bags under her eyes are, the tear stains on her cheeks.

“ni,” she says hopefully, her voice deep and thick like she’s got a cold, “i didn’t think you were coming home.”

he shrugs out of his coat, hanging it up in his armour, ignoring the way his hands shake. he doesn’t turn around to look at her.  
“oh,” she says a moment later, and there’s a small laugh in her voice, but it’s disbelieving, sad, “you’re drunk.”

“i just went out for a few,” niall returns, hating the way he speaks to her, the way his voice is curt and short. he can’t help it, can’t help the way his anger is so easy to find now, so easy to wrangle him into something warped and ugly. “of course i was coming home.”

“i didn’t go into work today,” gemma admits softly, sniffling, “niall, look at me. i’m sorry.”

he turns around, now just in his black work socks and his pants. he finds his sleep trousers at the foot of their bed, struggling to put them on. he takes her in then, gemma at the top of the bed in a silk pyjama button down, one that compliments her clear, creamy skin. her hands are raw and bird like as they clutch around crumpled tissue. she fusses with them in her lap, her arched brows drawn up in anguish, worry.

he wonders if she feels as sick as he does. “i’m sorry,” she says again. “i’m sorry.”

“i know,” niall’s voice sound scratchy, like he hasn’t used it. “i know you are. but it’s going to take time - you - you went behind my back and you -” he catches himself then, feeling his face screw up, something hot and wet lodge in his throat. he throws his hands up as if to surrender, running them through his hair.

“i was so excited,” he admits softly, rubbing a hand over his mouth. he feels sick. “i don’t know why, but i was.”

“i can’t take it back, but i wish i fucking could,” gemma cries, “i didn’t know it would be like this.”

niall swallows, coming around the bed and sitting on her side, hating the way she braces herself for another verbal onslaught, small fingers clutching their duvet. “don’t cry, gemma,” he says softly, “look, it’s - it’s okay.”

“no,” gemma argues, “it’s not. i’ve hurt you. it’s not okay.”

niall nods quietly, taking a deep breath. he looks at her hands, and wonders with a sadistic curiosity if their baby would had her hands, soft and pretty as they are, with long, even fingers. he knows, logically, that the baby didn’t have hands at all, that at just four weeks it was barely more than a ball of cells, and dna.

he grabs her hands them, holding them, even though they’re wet and slimy with her snot, and he sighs, looking her in the eye and motioning for her to do the same. gemma takes a shuddering breath, nose dripping, hair a tangled mess without a decent brushing.

niall shifts, climbing over her to his side, feeling more drunk as he lies down.  
“you’re sleeping here?” gemma whispers, hopeful, and he nods. she turns out the light, kicking tissues off the bed, lying gingerly down beside him. they lie in stunted, suffering, silence.

finally gemma whispers, “will you hold me?” and niall nods again, holding out his arms for her to come closer but not trusting himself to speak. gemma complies at once, rolling into his space, face buried in his neck. she sniffles again, her damp cheek wetting his skin.

“i love you,” niall whispers into her hair, and gemma starts to sob quietly again, her upper body shivering with her upset, teeth against his clavicle. he is too tired to do anything but hold her close. he cannot see her in this light, cannot tell if her face is pinched or still beautiful.

“i’m sorry i fucked everything up,” gemma apologises again, like her tongue will never tire of it, “i’m so sorry.”

they fall asleep bathed in darkness, not even the light of the city breaching their closed blinds.

-

niall wakes up at half nine to find that he’s slept in during his work week, and his head is pulsating with his unattended hangover. he rolls over, wiping his gummy sleep mouth on his wrist and searching for his phone, sending an errant text message to his assistant that he won’t be in today. he can’t be fucked to get up at this point.

he stumbles to life, splashing water on his face and brushing his teeth, gulping down two glasses of water in a matter of minutes. he feels better, save for the heavy heart, and he goes back out to their bedroom only to find their bed empty save for rumpled blankets.

“gemma,” he calls out, and then shrugs at the lack of response, going out into the kitchen to find something to put together for breakfast. there isn’t anything that hasn’t gone off in the fridge that he can eat, so he drinks a glass of orange juice and hopes it helps.

niall finds that he wants to talk to gemma, to smooth things over, to move on; what happened the week before is now a sore spot in his soul, but he can try and move on from it, manage to get their lives back together before anyone notices. he hopes in a few months he can tell zayn about what happened, but not now, not when it’s so fresh still.

he assumes she didn’t go into work today, either, but gemma often went to fetch some kind of morning tea for them on days they were both home, and so he goes back into the bedroom to text her when he realises something is different.

off.

the medication and assorted jewelry gemma leaves on the bedside is gone, only an empty water glass left in it’s place. niall eyes for a moment, before feeling the sudden urge to peer inside her bedside for her usual goodies: haribo, her set of vintage christian dior hair pins, a signed letter from karl lagerfeld dated in 2007; when he opens it, all that is there is a remote for the telly.

after that he operates mechanically, opening drawers only to find them empty: her lingerie, a blend of pastels of laces and silks, all gone, her jewelry cabinet, her dresses, her black pencil skirt, her jeans. gemma was a minimalist even with clothing, a classic woman when it came to picking out her pieces for each season like they were art to adorn upon her body. the only thing left in the closet is a pair of tall riding boots and a large peacoat; her feather down jacket is gone. so is her only bottle of perfume, a jo malone scent niall has bought and rebought for her countless times since they met.

his gut is in turmoil and his heart beating in a frenzy as he opens the drawer to her desk hands scrabbling through paperwork never to find what he’s looking for her.

her passport is gone.

on her desk table top, now absent out of her beloved calendar, sits a tiny bag from petit bataeu. inside are two perfect, identical booties, barely large enough for two of his fingers. a strangled noise sounds through the flat, like a terrible, half-formed sob, and it takes niall a moment to realise that it is coming from him.

-

“niall,” malia’s voice sounds surprised as she opens the door to their flat in mayfair, and why wouldn’t she be. niall is dripping wet and freezing his arse off in the january rain, and he looks a right state, he knows. he doesn’t care.

he nods at her, feeling his breath shake on the intake, “malia, sorry,” he says, “is zayn around? i forgot me phone on the way over.”

malia eyes him before smiling softly, opening the door wider to let him in. she looks, as usual, beautiful; it is a different kind of beauty than gemma, who was wild and without inhibition, malia was demure, gentle, with this maternal, endearing quality about her. with malia, there is nothing out of place: not a hair, not an eyelash, not a smile.

she leads them past the reception room where two of malia’s sisters are lounging, the telly on and no one watching; through the dining room, into a back room that zayn has turned into an office. she knocks, waiting for a reply so soft niall has to strain his ears to hear it.

“niall,” she says quietly, a cold hand on his arm, “are you okay?”

“i - i’m fine, yeah,” niall finds himself saying, blanking her, even though he knows he can trust malia and she’s never once betrayed him as anything but kind. “i just - “

“need to talk with zayn, yeah,” malia nods like she understands, something telling in her smile. “if you need anything, you know…”

he nods again firmly, “no, i know,” he says again, because she’s offered countless times, but no matter her efforts to be included with zayn’s friends, it never seems to amount to much. niall wishes he didn’t contribute to this, but he never has much to say to zayn’s pretty, sweet wife.

“mate,” zayn’s voice appears at the door, hand gripping the door. he turns towards malia, nodding at her somewhat curtly. she nods, patting niall’s arm once more before disappearing back into the living room. he looks at niall, “shit, ni, you okay?”

“i just wanted to know if you got some time for your oldest friend, zed,” niall laughs, but it falls flat, “how’re you?”

zayn shrugs as they walk back into his office, sitting behind his desk like niall is his client. “sorry,” he gestures apologetically at the arrangement, “we’ve been here for a year and i still can’t be arsed to get some more damn chairs in here. a couch, maybe.”

“sounds freudian,” niall wrinkles his nose. “you two okay?”

zayn nods, shrugging one shoulder indifferently, “fine, suppose. work keeps me away, a lot. how’s gemma?”

niall swallows, cupping his mouth for a moment before sighing heavily, “gemma left.”

“she did what?” zayn sits up, eyes narrowed, “where?”

“if i knew, i would be sending you a bloody postcard,” niall laughs mirthlessly, “dunno. she just left.”

“just up and?” zayn frowns, “christ, niall. i’m fucking sorry.”

“s’okay,” niall shakes his head, “i just thought i should tell you first before the whispers start.”

“we all thought we’d be getting invited to a wedding soon,” zayn muses sadly, shaking his head, and niall grimaces, jaw flexing at the thought. “sorry, man. this is shit.”

zayn lends him a jumper and a blazer niall thinks might be originally his and takes him to one of his favorite moroccan restaurant _momo_ , a hand around his the nape of his neck, guiding him through it. they booze their way through three courses before zayn, with a twinkle in his eye, calls ahead for a table at jalouse in the west end.

zayn does what niall knew he would do exactly; gets him good and drunk, treating him to clubs where he knows the owners and bartenders who know how to make the best drinks. they laugh together like they’re kids again, motioning for more drinks and rolling cigarettes on glass tabletops, giggling into each others necks as they reminisce about old times; niall used to think his years spent in school were fucking awful, but now a small part of him wishes he could back and suffer through them all over again. for a moment niall forgets, and it isn’t until zayn’s driver drops him back off on his street that he remembers that he is returning to an empty flat, with a cold bed, and no one to wake him up out of his hangover tomorrow.

he stumbles into his doorway, tossing his keys onto the floor, a part of himself hoping he’ll walk into the bedroom and find gemma’s sleeping, quiet form under the blanket, the telly on, perhaps, or maybe she’d be curved over her large flat calendar, murmuring about work dates and trips they’re about to take.

the bed is empty, rumpled like he left it this morning. he eyes it for a moment, drunkenly swaying on the spot, when he hears a knock on the door. he thinks for a moment its zayn’s driver, holding something niall’ forgotten in the backseat, or perhaps gemma, windswept and regretful, suitcases at her toes -

he swings the door open to reveal a bedraggled, impossibly tall and lanky harry styles, curly hair cut shorter than niall’s seen in recent years, cheeks flushed with the cold. he’s got a bag slung over his shoulder and an anxious look about him, and niall eyes him for a moment, before lunging at him and sweeping him up in a hug. he’s nearly too tall to hug properly anymore, the twat. harry shuffles closer into his touch, cold cheek presses against niall’s neck.

“haz,” niall smiles, knuckle his curls much to harry’s chagrin when they part, “what the bloody hell?”

“thought you could do with a visit from me,” harry smiles, running a hand through his damp hair, “you’re properly fucked, ni.”

“i am,” niall nods, directly harry into the living room, taking his monogrammed bag from his and placing it on the coffee table, getting rain on the magazines that are underneath it. “lets set you up, then. obviously you’re staying.”

“obviously,” harry smiles, stripping his oversized lavender sweater and kicking his boots off like the french tit he is, knocking his hip into niall’s side as he bypasses him for the toilet like he owns the flat.

“wake me up in the morning when i’m not so drunk,” niall giggles, throwing a pillow at harry’s fluffy head, “take you for a proper welcome home brunch.”

“a french place,” harry demands impishly, blinking owlishly. niall wonders distantly if he just flew in today.

niall nods with faux seriousness, “course, mate. all the french shit you want.”

“cheers, ni,” harry says, falling face forward into the couch, struggling to get the throw around his broad shoulders. niall strips down to his boxers, sighing quietly. he forgoes brushing his teeth, too tired at this point and crawls into his bed exhausted with the night, unable to think of much else.

-

he wakes up to a sweaty harry plastered to his back and niall shrugs him off, rubbing his face, his aching jaw. he’d been clenching his teeth in his sleep, he thinks. niall had nightmares all night, of falling, of waking up to darkness, of gemma calling and him not answering in time. he can’t remember them exactly, all hazy in detail, soft in the way they hurt him.

“call in to work,” harry murmurs, “it’s past noon.”

“shit,” niall sits up, shoving harry’s gangling limbs away from him, rubbing his eyes. “sorry about breakfast.”

“no worries, i fancied myself a walk this morning and ate at the blanche down the street,” harry shrugs sleepily, “but anyway, we’re going away for a few days.”

“you’ve decided this, have you?” niall murmurs, flicking the side of his arm as they rolls out from between the sheets, squinting against the overcast light, the beginnings of february bleeding into his retina. “clearly you’ve taken up residence in my bed.”

“no one should have to sleep alone,” harry says softly, and niall feels his gut clench. he sounds, in that moment, so much like his sister.

“gemma sent you,” he surmises curtly, toothbrush poised against the lip of the sink. harry sits up, shaking his hair out and rummaging for a pair of trousers. he stands up, his frame just as slender as niall remembers when he was at school.

“no,” harry returns, nicking the toothpaste from niall and looming over the other sink, “she did not.”

“look, haz, don’t fucking think for a second that you can right what your sister has fucked up with me - “

“i don’t think that,” harry counters, “she didn’t tell me anything, and i’ve not come to play housemaid to you two and your baggage. i came to london,” he says around a mouth full of toothpaste, “because i wanted to come to london.”

“really,” niall rolls his eyes, “and it had nothing to do with your sister packing her shit and fucking leaving - “

he cuts himself off then, sucking in his cheeks and biting on them. harry’s eyes turn soft, round like dinner plates, even though his face has lost it’s baby fat long ago. “niall.”

“i can’t talk about it right now,” niall mutters tersely.

“i’ll be here when you are,” he offers and niall flushes his mouth full of water, walking back into the bedroom to find some clothes that don’t stink of cigarettes and gin.

“and if i never want to talk about it?” niall argues pettily, and harry shrugs easily, as if to say, _i’d still be here_. niall takes it for what it is, shrugging into his t shirt.

  
-

  
after several refusals just short of tantrum, niall is corralled into the car harry called for earlier and they drive off to london city airport, which is closer and less busy than heathrow. niall is sore and exhausted, barely able to remember what happened last night in what order, though zayn texted him this morning in good spirits so he couldn’t have been too dreadful. it’s been a long time since he’s been bad company. it’s almost familiar. the urge to retreat.

he falls asleep in the car, head tucked in his hood, soothed by the sounds of the road, the usual traffic in canary wharf at lunch time on a friday afternoon. it is only until they are standing in front of the check in counter at cityjet that he blinks up and frowns, something stirring in his gut.

“you’re taking me home,” niall says flatly, dread evident in his tone, “why the fuck would i want to go home right now.”

“we’re not going to your’s, specifically,” harry says, unperturbed by niall’s sour mood, shuffling the boarding receipts to the woman over the counter in return for passes. “we’re taking a roadtrip through cork and see some wilderness.”

“haz, what,” he finds himself frustrated, too hot, “why are we doing that?”

“it’s only a weekend,” harry shrugs, leg bouncing, “‘sides, it’ll be nice this weekend. i can tell.”

“shut up,” niall nearly laughs, “it’s bloody january. in ireland. and it’s not wilderness, jesus. just countryside.”

“will you shush, _mon vieux_?” harry flaps at him, dragging along their small luggage and trying to find the right gate. “maybe i wanted to see ireland. maybe we both need to get out of the city.”

niall wants to point out that harry just arrived to the city, but from the glare niall receives a moment later keeps him quiet. he slumps in a seat near their gate while harry wanders off in search of a book to purchase at the to go wh smith, staring up at the ceiling of the airport.

-

ireland is a dark, murky swirl of black clouds and endless muddy land. harry’s curls matte from the rain in a matter of seconds after he steps outside, and niall watches miserably as harry tries to get a car hired from the dealership next to the tiny airport.

he loves this country, loves it down to the bones of his soul, but it reeks havoc on his brain, being here, smelling the grass, the manure, the sheep. the free air, untainted by city life and excitement, a slow quiet spread in front of him, seemingly endless. it hurts like an old wound, a bruise that doesn’t fade. even the trees remind him of annie, remind him of a life he had then and a life he has now.

he was doing okay, since he met gemma and harry finished st. peter’s; he seen parts of the world he never knew he would be interested in going to, finally finished university and started working for his dad, learning the trade of the family business, connecting with old friends and making new ones; he had just bought a flat; he would wake up in the morning and not want to roll over to the side of his mattress and puke. he was doing okay.

ireland is another story. harry should know this, considering he’s been the closest thing to a baby brother niall has ever had since he’d met gem. niall rubs his temples, a pain behind his eye, watching as harry pulls up in a tiny volkswagen rental, barely enough room for the two of them in it, let alone harry’s long tarantula legs.

he sighs, dragging their luggage with him and instantly getting pelted with heavy droplets of rain as he runs halfheartedly to the car, crawling into it’s cramped front seat and throwing their bags in the back, wiping water out of his brow with his sleeve. he glares at harry then, shaking his head, and harry just shrugs, starting the car, even though his smile has fallen around the corners of his mouth.

“we’ll be at the hotel soon,” harry assures him, turning on the windshield wipers as high as they will go, revving the engine.

-

they do not end up at the hotel soon. what they end up is lost, encountering endless highway and forks in the roads, some not marked on the tiny map harry has brought along. niall tried using the gps and then siri on his iphone, but neither prove entirely reliable, and the end up driving for three hours, in what niall fears are large, muddy circles.

“i’m sorry,” harry says for the upteemth time, his hands gripping the stirring wheel tightly. night has just about fallen, and they’re the only ones on the road. it’s almost pitch black from the lack of other headlights. “it’s the rain, it confused me.”

“look…” niall starts, and then he watches as the car swerves slightly, toeing the edge of the road. niall turns to watch harry for a moment, quiet .he doesn’t look well, now that niall is seeing him properly, even in nearly non-existent light; his face drained of colour, a thin sheen of sweat on his brow and above his lip, the veins in his neck bright blue underneath his skin, pulsating like rivers flooding a plain; like his heart is beating in his throat.

niall frowns, reaching over over to grasp harry’s hand over the steering wheel, feeling the way it shakes underneath his palm. “haz, you okay?”

“m’fine,” harry nods, but he can’t keep eye contact when he looks over at niall, his whole body shivering, “haven’t eaten yet, is all.”

“fuck,” niall curses, “pull over.”

harry shakes his head, “no, it’s alright, i can - “

“you bloody cannot wait, you’re about to have a hypoglycemic attack,” niall orders him, and in response to harry’s side glance, he retorts, “yeah, so i’ve read a little. i know my shit. now pull over.”

he complies, the bloody tit, pulling to a stop at the side of the road and reaching a trembling a hand to push the curls from his face, his shivering taking control of his body as his shoulders shudder, and harry keeps shaking his head, eyes closed as he rocks in his seat.

“fuck,” niall cusses, reaching back into his bag and grappling for the banana and the bueno bar harry had bought at the airport intended for when niall got hungry, but it doesn’t matter now. he peels the banana, breaking it in half, shoving it at haz. “please don’t make me feed you,” he pleads with a note of urgency in his voice, but harry nods, eyes slipping closed as he takes it, pressing it into his mouth and chewing slowly.

“eat more of it, haz,” niall urges, giving him the other half of the banana with half of the bueno bar smashed on top of it like some kind of pathetic sandwich. “come on, chew, chew.”

harry holds up a hand, pushing at niall playfully, and niall feels himself sighing with relief, a sure sign that harry’s regaining some of his control again, or at the very least some of his brattiness. harry glares at him, one of his eyes tearing slightly, though a moment later he grins with a mouth full of chocolate and niall rolls his eyes.

“we’re a bunch of prats, you know,” niall mutters a second later, watching as the rain eclipses them like a wet curtain, closing them off from the rest of the world. “i’m suppose to know this land. me grandad owns probably half of it.”

harry shrugs, still chewing in a manner that reminds niall of a cow. “don’t know much of france, honestly. just the south, and the capital.”

“yeah, we’ll you’re proper cultured and all that shit. lived in africa like some curly haired white savior,” niall teases, and harry shoves at him in response.

“don’t be a dick,” harry snaps, but he laughs a second later. “i’m sorry. will you believe me if i think i know where the hotel is from here?”

“not a bloody chance,” niall shakes his head, laughing as harry starts the car ahead, his shakes gone. harry shrugs good naturedly, not even chuffed about niall’s lack of faith.

-

the bed and breakfast is quaint and somehow resembles something niall knows gemma would love; with it’s antique wooden furniture and it’s thick, velvet carpets. it is the opposite of what louis and zayn prefer, always obsessed with the modern and expansive, and generally not even what niall is used to. it looks old, not unlike the house he grew up in just outside dublin. it smells almost like home.

they climb the stairs to their room, a two bed ensuite with a balcony, the rain and cold beating against the single pane windows. niall calls shower first, and is pleased to find that the water pressure is of this century. he finds himself lost in the steam of the tiny bath, his skin pink and raw like he’s shed his old one. he only wishes it were that easy.

when he emerges from the bath harry is stripped down to his pants, his clothes hung up on frilly hangers from the b&b and hung over the radiator, his wet hair wrapped up in a towel turban. there’s a scar from his last surgery curling around his hip and snaking up his abdomen, shiny where it hits the light. it should be grotesque, but it only makes harry look worn in, friendly, like his body is a map that has been handled again and again by different hands, always leaving behind their own mark.

“we’re not painting nails and braiding hair,” niall warns, and harry scoffs.

“girls don’t even do those things at slumber parties,” he mumbles, and niall laughs.

“no,” he knew this to be true because his sister never did, “annie and her best friend would always bake.”

“i’m sure she always let you lick the bowl, then,” harry smiles slyly, laying back onto his bed, his feet hanging off the end. he nearly eclipses it, the pale expanse of his torso now littered with tattoos he’s acquired at art school over the past two years. louis despises tattoos, and niall wonders if that has anything to do with it, or if they are completely unrelated.

“everytime,” niall nods, “i’m exhausted.”

“i’m sorry about what happened in the car,” harry apologises, crawling up into his blankets and shucking the towel onto the floor; his hair a floppy mess, “i actually am getting better at managing my insulin.”

“it happens,” niall excuses with a shrug, “when are we leavin’?”

“in almost twenty four hours, you twat,” harry bites out, “can you just enjoy that i’ve whisked you away on a romantic holiday in the gloomy, murky irish wilderness?”

“one styles is enough for me,” niall rebuttals without even commenting on harry’s misuse of the word wilderness, and then frowns, closing his eyes for a moment.

“tell me,” harry says quietly, fingers drawing patterns on his pillow, head propped up on hand, “tell me what she did.”

niall closes his eyes again, the small antique hotel room disappearing from sight, the rain fading, the buzz of pure silence taking over his senses. he finds himself saying, “only if you tell me why you really came back to london.”

harry nods once, eyes grave. so niall takes a deep breath, staring at the ceiling. “she left because she thought she fucked everything up between us. but she didn’t because she could never wreck it so badly i would fall out of love with her.”

he expects harry to ask what she did, or what happened, to press on niall for more details, the gory dramatic entrails of niall’s life, but he remains silent, fingers drawing the same patterns into his pillow. so niall continues on.

“four weeks ago she was pregnant,” niall says slowly, tasting the words, how the feel now like acid on his tongue, like candy that has gone expired, burning his tastebuds. “and i was so excited - i can’t explain. for a moment in time my entire world just shifted into place. and it scared her, i think. how i just realised i wanted it and she - well, she didn’t,” his feels his voice choke, his words taking more effort to produce, “now there isn’t a baby. she got rid of it.”

“she wanted that baby too,” harry whispers, his face drawn and tired, suddenly older than his twenty years, “gemma doesn’t know what to do with love. she runs from anything with a beating heart.”

it would be a cruel twist of words, except that niall knows harry does not mean it so literally. he speaks from experience of being left by gemma too, at school on his own at fifteen in a country where he knew next to no one, where she was suppose to watch over him. she didn’t return to her brother until his health had him hospitalised, and she’s not returned to him since, really. it was niall who always took them out to visit harry in paris while he attended university.

harry blinks slowly, his face pale in the darkness, “can i tell you why i came back to london tomorrow?”

“promise me, or i’ll make you suffer something awful,” niall teases softly. he’s thankful it’s dark, so harry can’t see how much he struggles to smile at all. harry nods, face pressed against his curls. niall closes his eyes then, just for a moment.

it’s dawn when he wakes up again, harry fast asleep still on the bed beside him. niall’s exhausted, can feel the tremor of tiredness in his body as he sits up, blinking against the musky pink sky outside, the haze of the storm leftover from last night like coloured gauze over the small tease of sun. there is no sun, niall knows ireland in winter. just a trick of the light. he closes his eyes for a moment, resting his forehead against the glass of the hotel window.

he reopens them a second later, and the world comes back to him, the unsettled churn of his gut, the sinking in his heart, the looming darkness beckoning his brain back, back to the place it was when his sister first died. the darkness is a safe, tempting place that he could sink into without even so much as blinking. he could give in; he could let the fog consume him.

but this time is different. he is not going to run from the tremor in his reality. this time, he is going to face it head on.

-

february / march 2016

zayn wakes up to the sound of his blackberry vibrating on the nightstand. he rummages for it lazily, eyes still protesting to stay closed. he’s exhausted, and it feels like there is a draft in the flat compared to the heat that enveloped him during his trip to dubai the week before.

“you’re awake, finally,” a voice sounds above him, and zayn blinks, staring up at the smiling, round face of his wife. malia is wearing some kind of low cut kimono, tied in a neat bow around her petite waist. “thought you’d died during the night, you were so still.”

“m’tired, babe,” zayn murmurs, reaching a hand out to beckon her closer. she follows, sitting gingerly down next to him, her fingers pressing back the hair on his forehead. “it was a long week.”

“wish i could have been there,” malia says with a hint of forlorn in her voice, which zayn chooses to ignore. he knows she wanted to come along, but he hadn’t wanted her to for reasons he never made clear. his new assistant, a northern transfer named perrie was accompanying him and a few of his uncles, and nothing breaks up a team like a wife to sit and spy.

“missed you,” he sighs, pushing his hot cheek into her cool hand, the softness of her skin like a white flag to their arguments the week before. he opens his eyes, her face coming into focus, her hair tucked behind her ear. “how come you look so beautiful all the time?”

“now you’re getting cheeky, zayn,” malia laughs, her perfect teeth on showcase like she’s mid-pose for a photograph. “you know how i look in the morning.”

“i know i do. i’m looking at you right now,” he runs a finger along her cheek. he whispers, “pure perfection.”

his hands make their way down her silk blouse, and he watches her watch his hand dip inside, cupping her naked breast. she sighs softly, a rueful smile appearing on her face. he pulls at the lapel, pushing it off her shoulder only to find a valley of goosebumps risen on her skin.

“you’re not wearing any clothes under that,” he asks, his voice low. malia shakes her head, and he makes way to pull it completely off as she makes a move to pull the sheets off him, knees bracketing one of his thighs. he pulls her down once to kiss her, tasting the mint of her toothpaste, feels the clear gloss she wears in the morning before she goes out.

zayn’s hand come up to grip the back of her neck, his other palm pressed into the small of her back. malia makes a small whimper as her hips rock forward of their own accord, but it’s swallowed by his mouth. she pulls at the lip of his pants, trying to shuck them off.

“wait,” he breathes, holding her wrist as he grapples for a condom in his bedside drawer. “wait,” he repeats again, thinking maybe she didn’t hear him.

“don’t use it,” malia murmurs, eyes hooded, “i don’t want it.”

“you’re not on birth control anymore,” zayn shakes his head, “i need to.”

“no,” malia says, this time without the breathy come-hither tilt to her voice. “no, i swear to god, zayn, i am your wife, and if you insistent on wearing a rubber everytime you want to fuck me i will prick a hole in every single of one of them - “

zayn pushes her off of him then, and she rolls to her side, gathering her kimono by the tie and fastening it around herself again, cheeks flooded with anger.

“you wouldn’t dare,” zayn warns her, standing up off the mattress and righting his pants, a hand through his hair. he rounds on her, finger directed at her where she sits in the middle of their bed like some kind of dumbfounded prize to be had. “i swear to god, malia, if you ever so much as thought about doing that - “

“why not? what would be so terrible about a child?” malia yells over him, and then she shakes her head in frustration, “i’m meant to sit here in this house and what? watch television until i die? shop? twiddle my fucking thumbs until you come home from work?”

“i told you when we got married that i didn’t want any children,” zayn snaps forcefully, “you do not go against me on that.”

“like you could do anything about it,” she cries, throwing her hands up and stepping off the bed, she curls her fists on her hips and stands across from him defiantly. “you cannot divorce me, and you cannot force the child from me. you are powerless, and you know it. i want a child. i want something to be proud of, for christ sake, something to fucking get up for in the morning.”

“do not fucking speak to me in that way,” zayn roars, his voice like an echo inside his chest, his lungs burning with the rage he is trying to swallow. “you need to learn how to respect me.”

“you need to learn how to respect me, too,” malia retaliates, quick as lightening, and zayn wants to punch the wall next to him as hard as he can. “you need to recognise that i am your equal. you fail as a husband. i do not fail as a wife.”

she turns on her heel, nearly running from their bedroom and slamming the door to the powder room near the kitchen. zayn sighs, shaking his head and rubbing his eyes. he hasn’t even said his morning prayer or had a cup of fucking coffee, and he’s already in the midst of another argument with this woman.

he knows what his father would say, in our family you show respect where respect is due.

but zayn is not his father.  
he feels the anger seep out of him like a separate entity as he kneels down on his mat for prayer in front of their bedroom window, showcasing the west end just outside of mayfair. it was his favorite thing about the flat when they bought it, the minimal, modern design, and the floor to ceiling windows that nearly encase the entire first level.

when he retreats from the bedroom, now showered, shaved, and flush with ready-made apologies, malia is in the kitchen blending something in the juicer zayn bought her a few months ago. she stares intently at the blade as they whirr through fruit and vegetables and whatever the hell else she’s put in there..

“malia,” he clears his throat, standing opposite her with their kitchen island between them like a war brigade. “look, babe, i apologise for losing my temper. and i think…” he scratches his chin, remembering it’s once again clean cut, “i think if you want something to keep you occupied, we can figure something out. what about a dog?”

“a dog,” malia says flatly, then she cocks her head to her left, calculating, “i don’t want an animal. i want something to challenge me.”

“okay,” zayn shrugs, “what do you want that will challenge you? anything.”

“anything?” malia reiterates, and zayn nods, “and you won’t say no?”

“if this will get your mind off bloody children,” zayn grits his teeth, “then yes, anything.”

malia smiles at first, and zayn thinks maybe she’ll become complacent with his offer and ask for a new car, or a birds’ weekend, or perhaps his black card to pull at harry winston. instead, she narrows her eyes, hand flat on the granite countertop and demands, “make me cfo of your company.”

zayn eyes her steadily, but she doesn’t flinch. “my uncle has been cfo for years. it’ll take some moving around.”

“javaad is your father’s brother. i am your wife,” she smiles, but it doesn’t reach her eyes, “this is what i went to school for. i have experience with finance, you know this, you know i can do this. you said anything. well, this is it.”

he sighs heavily, rubbing his face, thinking of his uncle’s hard stare when he delivers this news come monday. finally he relents, seeing no other way around it. “fine,” he nods, “you start tuesday.”

-

sunday brunch is always an event for malia, who choose her attire perhaps a week in advance. the rest of week she couldn’t be bothered to wear anything other than her black pantsuits or some kind of exercise clothing at home, but zayn recognises that for some reason, sunday means she spends an hour in the toilet getting ready.

he supposes he prefers how she looks when they’re just together in the flat, though even then malia has this strange, stylised quality about her, like she’s playing the role of a person wearing pyjamas all day rather than just wearing them.

she picks at zayn’s clothing when he’s not at the office all the time; the raggedy, faded gray jumpers, the borrowed trackie bottoms from niall or lou, the scuffed, near ruined nikes he doesn’t see any point in getting rid of. malia disapproves. zayn makes a point to wear them more.

they end up at angler at the south place hotel on the brink of east london this sunday for seafood rather than roast, because louis had called ahead and changed his mind, opting for reservations here instead. zayn picks a seat facing the window between louis and malia so he can stare out into the city and hope that it is sufficient enough to drown out the noise.

louis looks paler than zayn has seen him in recent times, but then again a holiday in new york for christmas will fade a tan. he smiles, slapping zayn on the back when they’re shown their table and settles down with his arm around the back of eleanor’s chair.

when she leaves the table to excuse herself the ladies room, malia pulls on his sleeve, “that dress is pre-season elie saab,” malia whines, adjusting the small diamond brooch on her dark green turban, “she looks amazing. i should have worn pastel.”

“what?” zayn squints at her, “absolute bull. you look beautiful. eleanor looks like some kind of limp rose petal, as per usual.”

“hey now,” louis warns, his grin fast like lightning as he replaces his phone back into the breast pocket of his black corduroy blazer, “that’s only because el actually is a limp rose petal in real life.”

“careful, lou,” zayn laughs, “don’t want to be saying shit like that with her in hearin’ distance, yeah?” he teases and louis shrugs, a small smile on his face. he’s surveying the room as he does every place they go for brunch, scanning for people they knew from school or through business, pointing out people they like or dislike, explaining crude antidotes for malia.

of all the people for louis to have taken a liking to, zayn never expected it to be malia. he watches them now, their heads bent low together as they sip from their crystal flutes, malia orange juice, louis some kind of breakfast champagne because the boy will never stop drinking to save his bloody life. their giggle at some woman with vibrant orange hair that passes them with a party of five or six when louis face falls, his back because stiff and brittle in his seat.

zayn follows his line of sight and feels his eyes internally roll at what can only end up becoming a grenade of drama to follow, because harry styles is trailing hand in hand with another bloke zayn does not recognises. he is taller now and broad shouldered with his curls tamed like an overgrown cherub, cheek dimpling as his party passes theirs’.

he’s wearing a lumpy forest green jumper, chinos, and dirty white tennies, clearly missing the dress code but not actually bothering to care. harry has this effortless affluent debonair air about him; it’s an attitude zayn has always been confused by and ultimately distrusted. ironically, it is the same self-possessed attitude louis has always tried to pull off himself, but even zayn knows you can’t imitate the bizarre attitudes of well-bred, old money.

“look,” zayn points out to malia after louis storms from the table, citing the need for a fag with just a wave of his hand. zayn can barely keep the smug grin from his face, “he’s wearing green too.”

-

“did you know them?” malia asks when they’re lying down in bed that evening, zayn saddled with emails already before the workweek, malia with her hair soaked in olive oil and wrapped in a towel for the night.

“know who?” zayn frowns, pausing from his ipad to change the channel from sky 1 to bbc 4.

“those people who made a big fussy entrance at brunch today. i can’t remember - the party with the woman with the orange hair, remember?” malia asks, shuffling through her nightstand to find her clear nail polish, tiny toes propped up on a pillow.

zayn rolls his neck, “dunno the group, just the one. he’s st. peter’s alumni. we went to school together. he’s been in paris for a couple years, though.”

“he should have come over and said hi, then,” malia shrugs one of her dainty shoulders, stealing the remote and changing it back to sky 1. “i’d love to meet more of your friends if you’d let me. i won’t bite.”

“s’not like that with him, babe,” zayn snorts, “him and lou go way back, and there’s bad blood, there. best not to get mixed up in that.”

“no, you’re right,” she smiles, leaning over to kiss his cheek, “it’s nice we don’t have bad blood with anyone, isn’t it?”

zayn blinks, jaw flexing as he tries to focus at the spreadsheets in front of him, fingers scrolling through his tablet, “yeah,” zayn murmurs, and even to his own ears his voice sounds distant, “very lucky.”

-

his uncle is a cold shoulder to him for the rest of february, but his marriage has never seemed better. malia is usually saddled with so much paperwork even after hours that when they drive back to their flat she goes to her respective, previously unused office on the other side of their flat and closes the door. most nights.

sometimes she’s on the phone, her voice too low for zayn to hear. zayn doesn’t want to know who she’s talking to; it could be anyone, really. her sisters, her mum. her best friends. he shouldn’t stand at the door and listen, neck so stiff he fears he might split a nerve when he stretches.

march is a needed solution to the barren question that was february. the sun is a glimmering, frivolous flirt on the morning zayn is receives an early, frantic phone call from one of his assistants.. perrie’s car refuses to start, and even though he’d been up the night before with niall, drinking like it was going out of style, he finds himself dressed and out the door in twenty minutes.

she’s standing there on a corner in limehouse, a gritty, distant part of east london that zayn rarely has reason to venture through. he prefers the haunts of the north, primrose hill and chalk farm, with all it’s admittedly trendy pretentiousness, and now the rich west of mayfair, malia’s favorite. east was always niall’s go-to place, because he never minded a little grit and grim for a good party. he smiles at the memories down in this area, the racious laugh niall would adapt as he became drunker throughout the night.

“thanks so much,” perrie breathes, her face flushed prettily from the cold, “i’m sorry i called but i dropped my phone last night and your’s was the only number i remembered,” she smiles then, embarrassment radiating off of her. she’s wearing a black dress and thigh high socks with thick doc marten on her feet, muddied and worn out in several places.

he raises a brow, “not your usual attire i’m used to seeing you in,” he laughs, and then cringes, wondering if he sounds smarmy. but perrie looks down at her lap and then giggles too, without nervousness, so he relaxes, making his way towards canary wharf.

“no, i know,” perrie says softly, “i’m flying out to berlin to see friends for a concert and it seemed - sorry, i don’t know why i’m telling you this.”

“perrie,” zayn laughs, “i know i’m your boss, but i’m not some old outdated bloke. i know what a concert is.”

“i know, i know,” perrie flushes again, and then she bites her lip, looking up at him through her lashes, and zayn has trouble keeping his eyes on the road. “it’s just, do you like it?”

“like what?” he asks, aiming for oblivious because he knows exactly what she is asking but he also knows there’s a silver ring on his finger, a signature of his western roots meet his eastern ones, and perrie knows, because he can feel the heat of her stare as she looks anywhere but his ring hand. he wants her to take the bait. he wants her to make the first gesture; to see if she’ll dare.

perrie licks her lips, sitting lower in her seat, her legs spreading so subtly it could have been a fevered dream, but zayn swears he caught it, the way her knees parted, dress shifted just to show another sliver of skin there. “just curious if you liked my outfit.”

zayn smirks, propping his elbow against the window ledge of his lexus as he waits for the traffic light to turn. finally he says without looking over to her, “yeah. yeah, i like it.”

he pulls into one of the city airport speed thru, but instead of leaving perrie in the drop off he navigates through the car parks, deeper and deeper until there are only a few cars there parked in basement level. he pulls into a corner spot, turning off the engine, taking a deep breath. he checks his phone, and there are thirty two new emails but no new messages from malia.

“sometimes,” perrie mutters, looking out the window and then back at zayn, “sometimes i pick out things i think you would like.”

she wears mostly h&m imitation pieces he knows his wife would scoff at, but it’s endearing, and encouraging, the way she looks at him, like she never regrets meeting him, working for him, inviting him into her life. perrie wants him, with nothing attached to it, just wants him as he is. she sees the strong, ceo image and she wants it, is hard up for it. she sees the track bottoms and a torn jumper and she wants that too. zayn does not confuse her lust with acceptance. zayn is not confused at all.

zayn is hungry for her because she is a forbidden fruit. there are girls more beautiful, or more sophisticated. but it isn’t like that.

“i wish you would show me,” zayn mumbles back, feeling the stuffy air inside the car suffocate him. all he can smell is her perfume and he inhales until he feels like he’s dipped his brain in it. “i work long hours. it’d be nice to have something..to brighten my day.”

perrie nods, “i will. i mean, i could show you now, if you want,” she bites her lip, one hand adjusting her nose ring, something she doesn’t wear in the office. “i could show you,” she offers again. she toes off her boots quietly.

zayn nods, feeling his dick start to stir, the heat of her stare obvious across the car, the small bit of shared space between them, her breath now mingling with his; she smells like cigarettes and gum, and she moves closer to him, leaning against the console as she reaches to kiss him.

perrie kisses fast and dirty, not orchestrated, not planned or styled, just hard and quick, like she’s dying for something just out of reach. her tongue slips into his mouth before zayn can even process what’s happening entirely, and before he knows it perrie is pulling away.

“we’re early for my flight,” she whispers into his mouth. “back your seat up.”

he does without question, scooting his leather seat as far as it will go, which is admittedly not very far, and they both laugh as she drops her bag in the passenger seat and climbs over, her thigh socked knees bracketing either side of him. perrie smiles, leaning down to kiss him again, biting at zayn’s bottom lip, egging him on to take control.

“you smell so good,” perrie breathes, running her fingers down his shoulders like she’s drinking him in.

“yeah?” zayn breathes, his eyes hooded as he grabs her bum through her dress, parting her cheeks slightly, before moving to cup her hipbones, sharp under his hands. “what do i smell like?”

perrie giggles, pushing her hair behind her ear again. she arches a brow, smirking, “like something i shouldn’t have.”

“fuck,” he curses, hands running down the length of her taut, pale thighs, shimming under the dress. he looks up at her for a moment, and she blinks at him, taunting him, giving him the room to make the next move.

she fingers at the hem of her dress, “take it off for me,” she mumbles, seemingly shy, but zayn is smarter than that. he strips it over her head without needing to be asked twice, her naked breasts pebbling against the air in the car, even though it’s so hot zayn can barely breathe.

with a hand to small of her back to brings her closer to him so he kiss her clavicle, moving down to suck one of her nipples into his mouth,. his hands keep her in place and she whimpers, hand in her own hair, face screwed up. her other hand comes up to grip his shoulder, and zayn finds himself pressing his thumb into the concave of her ribcage, taking in her naked torso, the imperfection of it, the human quality of it.

perrie’s panties are pink and ostentatiously bright and he can tell that her cunt is already wet when he pulls the lace down around her bum. his fingers tease her, pressing inside only to beckon her closer, feeling the way his body urges to take, the way he so unashamedly wants her in that moment.

“fuck me,” she groans, nodding, “i don’t care, just - i can’t not - “

“yeah, me either,” zayn agrees hurriedly, pushing his trackies down his leg, stroking his dick a couple of times before positioning her hips over him, slapping her arse once, eliciting a intoxicating laugh out of her.

they fuck fast and dirty, and perrie is loud, demanding that he fuck her so she’ll feel it later, remember it, his hips thrusting so fast off the seat he worries, distantly, that he might break it. she leans back against the steering wheel, body on display as her bum fits in his hands, breasts bouncing with obscenity.

it’s nine in the morning, in bloody public. it is beyond the point of obscenity, zayn thinks.

she makes her ten forty five flight with a near hour to spare by the time he’s on his way back to mayfair, and zayn has this oddly satisfied feeling that he was just used for an orgasm by a temp. every time he leans in towards his steering wheel, he can still smell the lingering of her perfume.

-

  
louis’ new place, located in the posh stretch between high st kensington and notting hill is three floors up and covered in white shag rugs, clear glass tables, and near window invasions of the wisteria growing all the way up the front of the flat, bright purple on white painted brick. it’s a standard image of the high earning london power living, and louis says it’s close enough to his mum that if he ever needs to drive the wedge further between them, it’s only fifteen minute walk.

zayn assumes he is the last to arrive for their dinner, niall and louis already breaking open a bottle of champagne, niall’s low laughter heard from in the kitchen as zayn lets himself in.

“sorry i was late, traffic was a sight as per usual,” he calls out, hanging up his wool bomber in one of the hall closets by the door. there are these blue clear glass baubles on tiny wooden tables by the door that don’t seem to serve any purpose and zayn glares at them for a moment, wondering if that is eleanor’s touch on the place. he doubts it. louis is notorious for being an atrocious roommate, girlfriend or not.

louis’ cooked of course, smacking zayn’s cheek when he passes him in the kitchen gallery, a huge wooden tray with some kind of square cut potatoes lined up on it.

“you look less dreadful than usual,” he teases, setting something on the table and cuffing the sleeves on his blue dress shirt. “is that colour you’re wearing?”

“the missus had an issue with the clothes i put on first, apparently,” zayn grumbles, helping himself to champagne and nearly downing it in one go. louis raises an eyebrow, smirking, “told her it was just you lot, but she can be a pain in my arse.”

“can’t fault her. malia has impeccable taste,” louis shrugs. they both migrate back to the kitchen where niall is standing over the sink, scrolling through his phone. niall looks up and smiles at zayn, palm reaching for his cheek in a similar fashion as louis, though there’s no smack that follows it, just another unapologetic grin in place of greeting. it makes zayn want to hug niall, to wrap him and up protect him, wipe away the drawn, tired look in his eyes, the way he wears his grief like a shroud.

this is another type of loss, zayn knows. different from before. but still, he recognises it. he recognises even the way niall tries to hide it, tries to initiate the old bits of himself from before. it’s different from when they fucked about in school, and even in university. they’re different now.

“you’re supposed to be watching the time,” louis rolls his eyes, using a small tea towel to whip niall’s flat bum out of his way. niall laughs, backing away. “who’re you talking to that’s more important than us, huh?”

“no one,” niall says firmly, pocketing his phone and draining his glass. “no one is more special tonight than you, tomlinson.”

“flattery gets you everywhere, ni,” louis chirps. “you both better like what i made, or i’ll have your head. it’s not everyday that i cook.”

“it’s always been a mystery how you even know your way about a kitchen. never seen you step in one till now,” zayn laughs.

“you’ve got a lot to learn, zed,” he says, slipping on a oven mitten and handling some kind of beef roast onto the stovetop, “and be grateful. i made pork, your favorite.”

“bugger off,” zayn calls as he pours himself another glass, following niall into the open space dining area, a large abstract shaped dining table lit with expose light bulb chandeliers. “you’ve got this place decorated fast. first you cook, now you’re looking at design plans. ’afraid you’ve been domesticated, lou.”

“don’t make me spit in your drink,” louis snaps, slicing the meat at the head of the table, “and it’s el’s decorator friend who offered, i didn’t want to bother this time round.”

the food is good enough that zayn almost wants to ask if louis hired someone to help him cook, like his mum used to do when they were preparing for a big dinner party and she wanted to serve british cuisine as well as pakistani. he’s laughing along to something niall is saying, until his eyes fall to the fourth table seat, which is done up but without a fourth guest. he runs through a list of people that could have been invited to a dinner as intimate as this, but his mind blanks.

the question is answered for him without him even needing to ask it, because a moment later the door slams and louis stands up to go greet whoever has arrived. zayn shares a look with niall, questioning, but niall just smiles, standing up too.

the first thing zayn notices about liam when he walks in, arm in arm with louis, is how genuinely happy he looks. his smile is wide and a stark white contrast against his bronzed skin. his hair isn’t cut as short as he kept it during university but short and coiffed, an attractive five o'clock shadow already on his face. he looks like he’s been lying out on a beach for the last six months and done nothing else. zayn feels his heart in his throat.

“look who came to our second annual promis dinner,” louis just about bursts with preening smugness, his smile equal parts elated and wicked as he smacks a large wet kiss on liam’s cheek, sitting him down across from zayn at the table and making him up a plate.

“i can’t believe you actually call it that, lou,” liam laughs, clapping niall on the shoulder and then cupping the back of his neck; pure affection in his touch. zayn can’t take his eyes away from his weathered, tanned hands. there’s a bruise crevice of his inner elbow, and zayn fixates on it before he blinks, looking up and smiling.

“good to see you, liam,” he says quietly, hoping that his sincerity is conveyed enough because he doesn’t trust himself to speak. he just looks so good. liam nods, his smile dropping like a light dimming for a moment, looking down at his table setting.

“i think it’s quite appropriate,” louis resumes his seat at the head of the table, kicking his legs over the armrest like he’s some modern prince. “given it’s been two years now since i was released from that dreadful place.”

“excuse me, if i remember correctly, it was your mum and i who picked that facility out for you specifically,” liam laughs, and the way his eyes crinkle in fondness make zayn’s gut swoop like he’s a child. zayn feels impossibly small, shifting in his seat like he’s waiting to be excused.

“well, you managed to pick not only the most pretentious but also the most boring of facilities,” lous drawls, but his leans his head on his hand, smiling, “could have at least sent me to betty ford where i could actually have a bit of a laugh.”

“what, so you could reek havoc with those californians?” liam teases, then raises his glass, “never the less, i toast your recovery, louis.”

they all raise their glasses, louis doing a swift little bow, but his smile is genuine when he looks up. they toast to him then, the lights dim, the food cooling, liam’s smile a million miles away but still burning bright on zayn’s skin, like he brought the sun with him. zayn has a million questions he wants to ask liam, but knows he won’t and probably never will. most of them start with _will you_ and _why did you_ and _i wish you hadn’t come back._  
in even zayn’s head, he knows its a blatant lie.

-

he doesn’t stay for drinks after and catch up. louis is enraptured by liam’s recent stories of australia and the new string of hotels he’s building there, but niall sends him a fleeting glance, walking him to the door.

“this dinner is important to lou,” niall says, quiet enough so louis won’t hear, his hand on the back of his neck, “don’t need to be so morose about his drug free lifestyle.”

“i’m not morose,” zayn frowns as he shrugs on his jacket, “do i look morose to you?”

“you look like someone who seen better days,” niall shrugs, “neither of them told me li was gonna be here. i thought he was suppose to be in oz for another two weeks. you know i would’ve told you.”

“it’s fine, you wouldn’t need to,” zayn shrugs, trying to feign indifference. he knows niall sees through this, but it’s all he has in his deck right now. “i’m glad he’s back.”

niall nudges him. “try. push past whatever residual bullshit there is. try and be happy for him. he’s doing well.”

“i can bloody see that for myself,” zayn snaps, and then sighs, shaking his head. “sorry. i should go.”

niall does something they don’t do often enough when he pulls zayn into his embrace. zayn isn’t often a tactile person while niall has always been: growing up in a haunted old house with just your twin as a companion will do that to you. loneliness like that makes you seek solace, find touch where you can, when you can.

niall has always respected that zayn needs his space most times, and won’t ask for comfort even if he desperately needs it, but this is how they’ve always worked. zayn can’t think of a single relationship that isn’t a little crooked when it came to give-and-take. niall, he knows crooked. he knows fucked up. zayn could never ask for anything more.

they part, and zayn feels the urge he had forgotten from the beginning of the night to reach out to niall, hold him, remove the tired hollowness in his eyes until all that remains is untarnished skin and bubbly laughter and dirty fun.

niall starts to head back towards the conversation in the reception room, but not before he pauses. zayn stands with his hand on the door, waiting. “i know you’ve got a lot on your plate. but you can talk to me, you know?” niall says finally, hand on his chin. “always gonna be my best mate.”

“yeah,” zayn says softly, stomach in knots. “i know, ni.”

“and zayn?” niall’s voice is so quiet zayn barely catches what he says next, “he’s staying at the kensington harrington.”

-

he barely remembers the drive back, or the walk up to his flat, or the elevator ride, his mind polluted with images of liam, tanned, blonder than before, wearing a white t shirt that he would have been swimming in back when they were in school.

it’s not until he’s near his door that he’s passing another man in hall and he realises he’s almost home. they exchange a glance, zayn nodding briefly before letting himself into his flat, the door shutting quietly.

“have you forgotten something? malia’s voice calls out, and zayn stands there for a moment, confused. she comes out wearing a brassiere he bought her last february, one of her silk robes tied around her waist. the expression on her face is all he needs to resolve his confusion.

“haven’t forgotten anything,” zayn says as calmly, shrugging, but he stares at malia until he knows she can feel it, until he hopes it imprints onto her skin.

“sorry, love, i thought - “ she starts, smiling, but he shakes his head.

“thought what? i was someone else?” zayn runs his hand down the line of the small table, picking up a small vase that held lilies from last sunday. it was a wedding present, originally. he smiles again, eyes on the vase, before flinging it as hard as he can at the living room wall.

malia shrieks, covering her ears as it shatters. “zayn, what - “

“what the fuck do you think you’re playing at?” zayn shouts, his heart like a hammer in his ears. “who was that?”

“who was who?” malia yells, but he’s not fooled by her faux confusion.

“you know what i’m - i saw him outside just now,” he seethes, “do i have to remind you that you’re married? or was it so easy to forget when you’re fucking him in our bed?”

“you’ve actually gone mad,” she cries, but her eyes are dry and she’s looking at him like she doesn’t know who he is.

“goddamnit, malia,” zayn slams his fist against the endtable and it shudders under his touch, but he doesn’t even feel it. “don’t lie to me. tell me who is he.”

“what a hypocrite,” she snarls, “demanding honesty from me, like i lie all the time. that’s all you know how to do. secrets, and lies, and nothing else - .”

his hand raises before he has time to process it and he watches, almost as if the world has slowed down around him, as malia looks at him with wide eyes, her mouth parted slightly in surprise. the glass on the floor, the colour of her robe, her red eyes; the cry sounding out in the room is coming from his wife. zayn lets his hand fall, but it doesn’t make a sound, because he doesn’t hit her.

it’s like he can feel the heat drain from his body as he looks at her in horror, like she would have all the answers. he backs away, a hand over his mouth.

“you - “ malia says, her voice robbed of viciousness, now coloured with disbelief and fear. zayn knows he will never forget, he will never forget the way she sounds in this moment. “if you think - “ she stops again, blinking back tears, “that by hurting me, it will fix things, then you understand less about marriage than i thought.”

“malia, i - i’m sorry,” zayn says, shaking his head, “i’m sorry.”

“don’t you ever do that again,” she cries, wiping at her face. “you stupid, sad little boy.”

“i’m sorry,” zayn repeats, his voice sounding foreign to his own ears. “i didn’t mean to.”

“that’s the worst part, zayn,” malia says softly, before opening the front door for him, holding herself away, like he might try to strike her again. it makes zayn sick to his fucking stomach, the way she is looking at him now, like he is something to be scared of. “please don’t come back here tonight.”

-

the cab drops him off in south kensington. he slips the concierge desk a fifty pound note, asking for whoever was the under the name ‘batman’: an old recycled password they used when they were supposed to be somewhere they weren’t. zayn’s banking on that to work and fears for a split second that it won’t when the man at the desk hesitates. after a smile, however, he passes him a slip with the room number and sends zayn on his way.

his hands shake the entire elevator ride and zayn buries them in his pockets, not looking at himself in the mirrors.

he tries to imagine liam’s face when he sees zayn on the other side of the door and can’t. a new fear dawns on him when as he knocks on liam’s door, that liam won’t answer because he won’t be in, because he stayed out late, with lou or whoever else, and zayn will have send niall a pitiful couch call, like he used to when malia and him were first married and couldn’t stand the sight of each other.

he doesn’t have time to turn back before the door swings open, and liam is standing there in a pair of sweatpants slung low on his hips, smelling like aftershave and toothpaste and cigar smoke. zayn can’t breathe, can’t read the complicated expression liam’s face.

“zayn,” liam says finally, and his name in liam’s mouth sounds like water against rocks, like taking your first breathe. “are you okay? you look - “

“i don’t why i’m here,” zayn cuts him off, eyes aching. “but i am.”

“you are,” liam mumbles, and then widens the door for him to step in. zayn does, feeling nervous and awkward in liam’s suite, like this is a stranger and not a boy he’s known for almost sixteen years, like he’s in a dream within a dream, like all the small details of reality have been distorted. he rubs a hand along the shaved side of his head and then takes a deep breath.

liam watches him the entire time from just beside the bed, like they’re in a standoff, both too scared to speak. it’s a change from how he looked earlier; radiant, giving off warmth like he was the fucking goddamn sun. now he looks shy, unsure, and zayn fucking hates himself it. it’s an old, comfortable feeling.

“you look upset,” liam edges, his voice cautious, “did something happen? zayn?”

“no,” zayn shakes his head, jaw clenched tight. “nothing happened.”

“okay,” he says slowly, “if you’re sure.”

zayn nods, feeling the awkward, stilted tension between them, so he asks, “how - how was australia?”

liam smiles then and zayn feels a surge of something ugly and possessive rear, jealous of the undiluted delight liam feels, giddy just from the mention of a memory. “amazing. the development of the project is going great, i’ve just flown in a cutting edge team of architects from tokyo, and they’re going to help me - “ liam cuts himself off, “sorry. just about drilled a hole in lou’s ear talking about it. you left early.”

“yeah, sorry about that,” zayn says, though he isn’t very sorry at all. “i had other obligations, at home.”

“of course,” liam nods, but his smile fades almost to nothing again and zayn wants it back, wants to touch it, taste it with his teeth. “i’ve met someone. a woman.”

“yeah,” zayn laughs, but it’s harsh and mirthless. he nods at liam. “what’s her name?”

“don’t,” liam shakes his head, but his voice is not unkind, blocking zayn’s path from the door. he shouldn’t have come, just so he can hear liam blather on about someone wonderful, someone else, someone who is not zayn.

zayn scoffs. “don’t what? come on, li.”

“her name is sophia,” liam answers instead. “she’s down there with me. you’d like her,” but zayn is sure that more than anything he most certainly would not. “look, it’s not fair. i’ve met someone. be happy for me.”

“i am happy,” zayn’s know his voice is cracking, like teeth clacking together, like a loose bow against d flat on his cello, and if he could reach out and physically grab his words back, he would.

“you are the most unhappy happy person i’ve ever seen, then,” liam murmurs, “i should have called. i’m sorry. but you did this to me years ago. you’re married.”

zayn sighs, unable to find anything say in return because liam is fucking right and they both know it. he’s still standing in front of the door, elbows out like zayn might try to sideswipe him and make his great escape.

“if she makes you happy, if she’s - if you love her, i should go,” zayn swallows, “we can make plans for next week. catch up, proper.”

liam shakes his head, hand reaching out to grip zayn’s wrist, his hand hot, “don’t go. i don’t want you to go.”

“christ,” zayn shrugs out of liam’s clutch, rubbing his forehead. he whirls around, “it’s like that, then?”

liam nods, and there is no smile found on his face, just grave severity as he nods. his brows drawn up in what looks like anguish, and perhaps it is - zayn has a particular hunger for pain, it seems, and he’s skilled at bringing it out in other people. misery is a second, fitting skin for zayn, and he wears like a brand new bespoke suit. well.

finally liam says, like a stamp on the envelope, a done deal, “it’s always been like that, with you.”

they can’t be bothered to take their time. it’s a reunion, of sorts, a revival of memories that zayn has not dared even thinking about until now. it feels like he’s flipping through an album of photos in his brain, slipping out of his jacket and stepping into liam’s arms, hands gripping his face as he pulls him in for a kiss.

they shrug out of their shirts and step out of their trousers with a skilled efficiency, tumbling down onto the bed in a mess of shoulders, knees and legs, a far cry from the skinny, fumbling boys they used to be. now they are more like men, liam a carved creature zayn’s certain he’s only seen in museums, zayn slipping off his wedding ring on the bedside table as they kick the sheets back.

“god, i’ve missed you,” liam says above him, touching zayn’s body like he’s worshiping a deity, wings of pink highlighting his cheeks. “i’ve missed this.”

it’s only been a year since they last truly saw each other, before liam took his father’s company down under for more opportunities, but it’s been longer since they’ve been able to be alone, since zayn’s allowed himself to touch, to look. he’s been hollow without liam all this time, unable to really feel anything. everything else was just a replacement. everything else was never as good.

“i’m not leaving until you fuck me,” zayn whispers into liam’s jaw, biting it, hoping it bruises, hoping his teeth mark are there for ever. liam presses his thumb to the soft skin underneath zayn’s eye, skin slightly tacky, a reminder of earlier.

everything exists in zayn’s brain from a distance, because all he can think about is liam, and how his body feels underneath zayn’s hands, like he is clay, like he could be molded, like he would let zayn scoop the very gory pieces of him out and create something entirely new.

they make do with a blow job and liam coming in zayn’s wet palm, because they couldn’t find any lube and zayn was too needy, too anxious to break the moment to go fetch some. liam has strong arms and a strange, mismatched tan, and he looks unreal, a fast-forwarded version of who zayn remembers, a confident replica of himself. zayn is as afraid as he completely enraptured.

later, after they’re shared a joint on the balcony and watched the city eventually slow to a glittering, blurring mass, after they’re kissed in a searingly hot shower until the whole bath filled with steam and their skin became pruny, they lie together on liam’s hotel bed, the cold breeze drafting in and stinging zayn’s bare skin. he doesn’t motion to get up and close the window, though. he wants to stay awake, to remember this.

“you’ve got to go soon,” liam croaks, his voice nearly gone with how exhausted he must be. he used to say that all the time during the small moments during school that they were alone long enough to be together, in zayn’s frequent lapses in judgement, always losing his will to stay away.

“no,” zayn shakes his head, rolling to face liam. his face is pressed up against his opened palm, and he blinks sleepily, a smile on his face. “not till morning.”

liam’s other hand trails zayn’s shoulder, “you know, when we were in school, it always all or nothing. we were either together or not at all...i realised, when i was away, that i don’t want it to be like that.”

“yeah,” zayn murmurs, “how’d you like it to be?”

“i just want us to be happy. i think you know how this is going to end, zed. i think you’ve always known. way before i ever figured it out.”

zayn nods, the words too heavy for him to respond to. liam doesn’t look upset, or even really bothered, his voice a long monotone whisper like a soft nostalgic song zayn can sink into. he closes his eyes for a moment, and then reopens them, watching liam watch him. “niall said to try and get rid of the bullshit we’ve put each other through. to try and forget.”

liam smile is dopey and beautiful, “he said that to me, too. that boy cares too much about everything.”

“nah,” zayn shakes his head, “he just knows how to love properly. something i need to relearn.”

“you can do it,” liam says seriously, voice slow and drowsy, his eyes slipping closed again, “i believe you can do it.”

-

march 2016 / april 2016

the first thing he realises when wakes up is that the back of his wrist itches terribly, and there’s a cold hand on his forehead. sleep sits on his eyelids, but he blinks anyway, the bright fluorescence inciting a dull ache in his brain.

“hey,” a voice sounds over him, and harry blinks, his mouth numb when he licks the front of his teeth. niall is wearing his office clothes, and he looks too serious for what harry knows him to be usually, “how you feel?”

“like i’ve been run over by a lorry,” he wheezes, stretching is other arm over his head and sighing. niall clucks his tongue sympathetically. “can do you go tell the nurse i’m ready to go?”  
niall does, and harry runs a hand through his hair, always forgetting how long it is now, the curls losing their luster from being laid on most of the day. he can feel the way his muscles protest when he swings his legs over the seat of the reclining hospital chair, pins and needles in the heels of his feet, the discouraging way they feel like they're filled with lead.

his nurse, a pretty young woman with skin like espresso removes his iv for him, and the iv from his clavicle,, blotting the entry points with cotton and taping it over. she checks his pupils, temperature, and blood pressure and harry tries to sit as still as he can, but he knows he’s swaying slightly. he wants to go back to sleep now, on this chair, under the lights, but he knows there is a bed waiting for him at niall’s, warm and smelling like cologne and fabric softener.

niall holds his keys out, extending an elbow for harry to latch onto if he wants. harry doesn’t want that, doesn’t want anyone to see him, so he shakes his head, trying to keep his eyes open. they walk back to niall’s car, illegally parked in the fire lane just outside the hospital. harry chuckles and niall looks at him, grinning.

“i know you’re bloody exhausted,” niall says when he starts the car, “but you gotta eat first before i let you crash.”

“i’m not hungry,” harry mumbles, but he knows that this will do little to change niall’s mind. niall sighs, hand on his mouth. “and you can’t cook.”

“we’ll order in. chinese okay?” niall asks, and harry nods, pressing his hot head against the window of niall’s aston martin as the grim, gray blue sky of london’s dusk rushes past them. at least the weather matches harry’s current mood.

“i want hong kong chicken,” harry mumbles, and he knows he sounds bratty, but he can bring himself to care. his hands itch something awful, but he keeps them tucked under his thighs, even though it presses on the bruise the iv has left. this small amount of pain acts as reminder, keeping harry at some level of consciousness.

“too salty,” niall disagrees, “you’re in a sad state, haz. i’d be surprised if you stayed awake enough to chew.”

“shut it,” harry mumbles, aiming for curt but sounding rather limp.

niall smiles, “how about soup?”

that sounds incredibly boring and harry makes a face long enough so niall can see it. niall stares him down, pulling into his designated parking spot and killing the engine. “fine,” harry finally says, like it was his decision to begin with, “no straws, though.”

“i make no promises,” niall says, because he’s a bloody prick and he knows it.

-

it seems like decades before harry is stripping down to get into bed. niall has finally relented, after what seemed like weeks of harry falling off the couch or sneaking in the middle of the night, that he’s accepted harry is now a routine resident in niall’s bed. he doesn’t see the big deal, really. it’s a rather spacious bed.

“you look anemic,” niall says from where he’s writing emails on his laptops. he never seems to stop working anymore, but maybe it’s a good distraction. in a way, harry understands. practicing his piano is much the same a welcome escape from his mind. niall dims his bedside lamp considerably when harry lays down, his muscles aching as he settles. he sighs. “have you talked to the doctor about something for it?”

“i’m already taking twelve different medications,” harry grumbles, closing his eyes.

“i know that,” niall states plainly. then, “what’s one more?”

harry can’t help it, he laughs slightly, until his voice begins to crack. “i feel like shit, ni.”

“this isn’t supposed to be a walk in the park,” niall sighs, and his hand comes to rub through the ends of harry’s curls, indulging him. “you know, we could do peritoneal dialysis instead. your doctor said it’s becoming more common, and you wouldn’t have to trek all the way to hampstead three times a week.”

“no,” harry shakes his head, “i don’t want a bloody tube inserted into my abdomen. i don’t want people to know.”

“you are such a brat, styles,” niall sighs, tapping harry’s forehead with the pad of his index finger. “people are going to know eventually. should know. gemma should know.”

harry knows how much it must take for niall even to say her name, to push aside what he feels for gemma and urge harry to do what is right; she is the closest family he has if he doesn’t count his grandmama. harry sighs, wishing he was already asleep and not having to focus about what he should be doing. it’s too much. it’s hard for him to even think about, let alone say out loud.

it had taken him two more hypoglycemic attacks and four secret trips to his hospital before niall cornered him into telling him everything, and that turned harry’s situation from something that could be ignored to a biting, vicious reality, one he wasn’t ready for. even the look in niall’s eyes, the mix of sadness and hope, the urgency to fix harry; it guts him. he is afraid he will never be ready to deal with this.

“not yet,” harry rolls forward, pushing niall’s macbook over and pressing his nose into niall’s hip, his sleep shirt worn in and forgiving on harry’s feverish skin. niall adjusts, lying down slightly, his arm looping around harry’s head so he can continue typing.

“soon, though,” niall says, but his voice is gentle.

-

so this is harry’s story now. he’s got a list of things to finalise, his journal to fill, and an excessive, ever growing, medicine cabinet. it’s not a big deal.

niall is always gone by the time harry awakes, usually half past one or two in the afternoon. he sputters to life, like an old man, his bones making fuss over what should be simple tasks. he leaves his drinking glass by the sink, even though he knows niall hates clutter, just in case he needs it later.

nick takes him out for lunch on a brisk march afternoon; the kind harry likes just before summer really starts to roll in, when the air is brittle and still unforgiving against his cheeks, but the sun is high in the sky, bright like a beacon. nick looks trendy and disheveled outside a hidden gem in covent garden, somewhat hidden in st. martin’s courtyard.

“here,” nick says tersely, not yet taken his sunglasses off even though they’ve been seated inside. he hands harry a olive green jumper, and harry takes it, slightly confused. “just looking at you makes me cold. put this on.”

he laughs, harry can’t help it. besides his boozing, partying, fast-paced lifestyle, something nick has never felt he had to hide or even be ashamed of; he is endearingly, stupidly paternal. harry puts the jumper on, smelling nick and even puppy on the collar, the sleeves running well over his fingers.

“thanks,” harry murmurs, “have you called - “

“she’s coming,” nick replies, a small bite in his tone. he flips his raybans up his head now, looking down at harry with a wrinkled, worried forehead. “i don’t like this.”

harry grins, shrugging; the jumper slips off his shoulder and he pushes it up again, shaking the sleeves to his elbows and taking his menu. “sorry, nick. i have my reasons.”

“i bloody well know that,” nick snaps, then sighs, waving for a server. they order; nick a bloody mary and a tonic, harry a pitcher of tap water and lemon slices and a diet coke, in that order, and they both get naked burgers without house sauce. nick passes the menus back to the server after they’ve finished, and he turns to harry again, a grimace clear on his face. “i just feel that we could move ahead for another surgery - i know one of friend’s had a great doctor when their mum was on dialysis, and - “

“i don’t want to do that just yet,” harry interrupts, and then relents. “look, find me that doctor’s card, i’ll have a look in. until then, this is important. please.”

“i know, i know it is,” nick says like he’s been chastised. he at least looks relieved that harry has agreed to call this new doctor. “it just makes everything seem so...like you’re giving up.”

harry bites his lip. “i’m not,” he finally says, smiling at their server when his lemons and water are placed in front of him. “i just - i’ve been ignoring this problem, like it will go away. but it’s not. and i’m...it’s getting harder, you know, everyday things. i need to start making motions, at least, in case anything - “

“yes,” nick cuts him off, eyes shutting closed for a moment. he places his hand on the table in front of them, fingers spread wide. he nods once, blinks. “you’re such a responsible little shit, harry. it makes me angry.”

harry laughs, “don’t be angry. tell me about the radio line up you’ve got this week. tell me about pix and aimee and henry. tell me you love me.”

nick does, and harry listens, chin in his hand. if he closes his eyes for a moment or two, its as if he can melt into the slow, deep northern monotone of nick’s voice and stay there, safe.

nick’s lawyer friend eventually comes, right on time for their scheduled appointment. harry had asked nick to meet him earlier so they could catch up, which was true; it was also true that harry needed some time to force his nerves into submission, to distract himself from what truly lies at hand. he thinks of his requests, his manuscript, his loved ones, and now at least, he feels at ease that some things will be taken care of in his wake.

after, they both walk to the tube station, sitting across from each other. harry already feels tired, and he knows he needs to take his medication soon. he watches nick, sat opposite him, knows he looks sleepy and pliant.

“don’t be sad about it,” harry says finally, his voice thick like syrup.

nick raises his eyebrows, pretends not to be bothered. harry has always loved this about his friend. “i’m not.”

harry nods, wishing it were actually true. he smiles then, “you’re my favorite.”

“oh, styles,” nick laughs, exhaling loudly, “i’m everyone’s favorite.”

-

he takes a nap after, spreading out on niall’s bed and setting an alarm for an hour later, his meds giving him strangest dreams. he writes a bit in his journal, but the words are meddled in his brain and he has a hard time trying to make the sentences form the way he wants.

nick has texted him while he must have been asleep. _there’s some posh party in chelsea tonight. should be dreadful. do come. x_

harry calls a car at fifteen past nine. he wishes niall was home, though, because it would give harry a good reason to text nick a no; however, niall is going to be out all night with liam and zayn at some dinner party zayn’s company was throwing, and harry has grown to hate an empty flat since he’s been sharing dormitories and student housing at university the past few years. loneliness no longer clings to him like film, as it once did when he was a kid.

he dresses in an obscenely orange burberry jumper he got in paris last fall and dark gray trousers, not bothering with his hair as it curls around his ears. he knows nick will take one look at the sweater and burst in laughter, which is what harry wants. he feels giddy just thinking about the reaction he’ll pull.

nick and his friends are at a table near the back and it feels like ages until harry is able to push past all these people to find them; nick nearly tackles harry in delighted surprise at harry’s atrociously jumper, and then for the next twenty minutes nick drunkenly compares aimee’s bright hair to it. harry feels slow and cheeky as he smiles; he was starting to feel the three tiny bottles of wine he had nicked from niall’s poorly stocked fridge.

harry makes grabby hands for a drink when nick sets down a round, and in returns gets a skeptic look from him. “should you be drinking, styles?” he asks.

“oh, nick, let me have my fun,” harry shrugs, supported by a following of agreement from nick’s friends. he smiles and drinks his cran vodka, knowing his cheeks are already pink.

the music is beating a hole through harry’s heart, and he recognises some people from niall and zayn’s circle, though not many, and they don’t recognise him. the drinks come steady, nick eyeing him every time harry takes one, but harry is undeterred to enjoy himself, for once. he just wants to feel the world swim. it’s been a long time.

“what event is this for, anyway?” harry finally asks, and nick breaks from conversation with henry with a disinterested scope of the club.

“a friend of pixie’s, eleanor, it’s her birthday,” nick shrugs, “she’s not here, though. left early, i think. or hasn’t arrived. don’t really care.”

“yeah,” harry nods, standing and excusing himself for the loo. “course.”

he wanders, and he knows he’s looking, even though he shouldn’t. harry can’t help it, it’s a like a force above him is pulling on his strings, like he a puppet, a planet in orbit. it’s hard to see and there are pretty, drunk young sloane rangers grazing for fresh meat as he wades through them, like a jungle, they tug on him like prey. harry is not phased. he is no longer meat to pawed at.

it’s like everything settles into place when harry finds him, like some dumb fucking cliche he’s heard over and over in every story ever told; maybe those stories are on to something. louis’ eyes are no less blue and bright than harry remembers as he stares harry down from across the club, lingering by the bar.

the song changes, swooping low in harry’s gut, and he makes his way through the crowd again, this time taking his time. his heart betrays him, beating wildly in his throat, in his chest, competing with the bass.

he follows louis to the hall in the back of the club, where the music fades between walls like a hum. harry leans against one of the walls, and louis stands before them, watching him. neither of them speak at first. it makes harry uneasy, excited, the way louis looking at him, hungry and disbelieving, and somehow powerless for all his beautiful grandeur. harry feels drunk with it, drunk with louis.

he says, “i’ve got something fun.”

louis nods, and then he laughs like he can’t believe it. harry reaches out his hand, and louis takes it, following harry into the deep corners of a club until they find an exit.

it’s just them, then, the rooftop bar not open on thursday evenings. harry pulls out mdma from a tiny altoids case, placing a dose in louis’ open palm. he watches as louis brings it to his mouth, swallowing, eyes blinking slow. harry follow suit, looking out at the city around him, unsure if he’s having another one of those medication induced dreams. it certainly feels like it; the world feels warm and different, unsure on his skin, wet on his tongue.

they roll together, on the skyline of louis’ favorite city, and harry thinks he’s speaking but he realises they’re just all these thoughts running around in his head, all the things he wants to say to louis, has wanted to say louis over the last three years and has never had the chance to. they all fade away now, unimportant.

harry swallows, looking over at louis where he’s lying on the concrete of the roof, eyes focused on the sky. it feels too much, and not enough. he scoots closer, skin buzzing against the cold but registering nothing, his hands clumsy from where they fall beside louis’ body. he is so deceitfully beautiful, harry thinks.

“you came back,” louis turns to him then, speaking for the first time. it’s like waking up from a long, detailed dream, harry thinks, like hearing a song you thought you had long forgotten; louis’ voice revives a feeling harry thought he’d never feel again. “you’re here again.”

“yeah,” harry nods, “i did.”

“i’m terrible with words,” louis laughs, his face pinched pink. “come back to mine instead.”

“okay,” harry smiles, standing up. his orange sweater falling around his hands as he wraps them around his waist. louis tugs on the inside of his elbow down through the club like they’re on a mission until they're outside again, the cool air combating the effects of harry’s high. louis comes at him in colors, different colors as they pile into the back of a black cab.

there is a feeling he has with louis that is unlike any other, like the split second before taking your hand out of an open flame, like smoke burning in his eyes but beckoning him closer, like urgency deep in his gut. it is a feeling he is convinced he would never have had if he hadn’t met louis; a sense of invincibility.

he could write a thousand words on what it means to look this boy and hand him your heart, and harry would never be able to describe it perfectly. like blood on your teeth. like the taste of tears. like light, like light.

louis is his drug, his fixall, his poison, and his addiction, and when he looks over louis has his eyes closed, neck lolling on the back of the seat, but his palms are open wide, receiving, and he is smiling.

-

they tumble into louis’ apartment like a wave wiping away a city, rubbing their red noses and dropping the coke harry brought where it falls in the hall, kicking the door shut behind them. louis latches two of his fingers with harry, his skin wet and hot, pulling him through the rooms; it’s dark, and harry is stumbling, and they’re both laughing.

it feels strangely out of body, like the last three years have not passed, like harry hasn’t let himself fantasize about this very moment in history, could never exactly picture how he would he turn louis around, now looming slightly over him, hand on his cheek. harry tilts his chin up, kissing him, tugging at his upper lip, waiting for a response.

they part, and harry stands, folding up in louis’ space, a star in his sky, waiting, breathing. his thoughts bounce on the inside of his head and he tries to avoid the dark crevices of louis’ smile in case he becomes distracted. he’s so high he can’t feel his fingers, his feet, his gums or teeth. he bites at louis’ jaw just to prove it.

louis inhales, then pulls harry’s jumper off and his shirt, touching his skin, his fingers like slippery icicles, making harry shiver. he knows it’s not cold, as their would never be a draft in louis’ flat, but he feels one anyway, a tingle down his spine, like some kind of reminder.

harry watches as louis marks him, teeth on skin, his hands playing with the curve of his collarbone like he’s gripping a grave marker, his hands moving up into his harry’s curls, his hands moving into harry’s mouth, and pulling right at the strings of his soul.

“come on,” he urges, prying at louis’ beige blazer, his cream shirt, wanting to outline the structure of louis, find the softest parts of him, curl up there and disappear. he’s not making sense, he knows, and his head feels like it’s underwater, the pressure making his ears ring. he’s not making any sense. none of this could possibly be real.

he scratches at the inside of his elbow, hoping it will wake him; he feels nothing but the heat of louis’ hooded gaze.

“don’t do that,” louis pulls at his wrists roughly, turning harry around and pressing him onto the bed. louis crawls over him, makes easy work of harry’s jeans, sliding them off his legs. he stares at harry, and harry stares at him, breathing heavy. louis has a dumbfounded look on his face. “you’re so...large.”

“i’ve grown,” harry giggles, pressing his mouth in his hand. “i’m older. you’re older.”

“yeah,” louis nods, taking harry’s wrist away from his face, pressing a kiss to it. “is it me, or are we really fucked?”

“so fucked,” harry can’t help the bark of laughter, the contraction of his abdomen as he laughs again. “quite fucked.”

“god, you are beautiful,” louis smiles, brushing a curl away from harry’s forehead. he shakes his head like he can’t believe himself, “i’m an idiot.”

“no,” harry disagrees, “you're just rolling.”

louis nods, rolling off of him, curling into his side, his skin cold against harry’s. louis presses a kiss to his cheek, his ear, the edge of his neck.

“hey,” harry mumbles, reaching for louis’ hands, bringing them over into his space, pressing them into his ribs. “c’mere.”

louis does, pressing closer, biting at harry’s lip, a hand coming up to cup possessively at the back of his head, fingers spread tight in his curls. it’s the mdma that is making his skin hypersensitive, and the coke that races his heart, but he blames it all on louis. after all this time, it has always been louis.

they fuck like they’re rearranging bones, picking each other apart. it should be fitting, harry thinks, the thousand stars exploding in his chest, making him lose his breath; the way louis’ smile is a moon in his mouth, illuminated as he presses into harry, the way his hands are unforgiving and raw, but honest, so honest as they hold onto harry like a storm holds it’s promise. louis is peeling back the skin over his ribs and stating; this is all we are. this is all we have.

-

harry calls his dealer at half two and they snort more coke on louis’ bathroom floor in the dark. they don’t turn on any lights. louis is wearing harry’s undershirt, his own boxers, a bruise on the inside of his thigh. he is leaning against the ledge of his tub and watching harry as if he’s some kind of figment.

harry crawls on the hard floor, unforgiving to his fragile knees. he lies his head on louis’ leg, staring up at him, fingers reaching up and aiming for his cheekbone. he misses, hand unsteady, brushing the tips of his light eyelashes instead.

“tell me something,” harry murmurs, and louis nods, gazing down at him. “were you terribly angry at me?”

it takes a moment. louis hand comes to touch harry’s hair, impossibly gentle. “no,” louis answers finally. “no, you. you had every right to go.”

harry laughs, he can’t help it. his head is filled with ridiculous things like _i cannot believe i withstood three years without being able to touch you_ and _my heart is a trigger ready for your fingers_ and _come back, come back to me_.

“why’re laughing?” louis squints, smiling bemusedly. he is soft and slow like his thoughts come to him in groups of two or three.

“m’surprised, is all. thought you’d hate me forever,” harry mumbles, smiling dumbly.

“no,” louis’ fingers skim down harry’s shoulders, making his skin tingle. he traces the lines of his bones, like he’s reading harry’s body in braille. “never.”

this time harry doesn’t laugh, though he finds it funny. he sits up then, licking his lips, pressing his wet mouth against louis, tasting nothing. he imagines crushed strawberries, stars, and soil. he imagines rain on his face. he’s so fucking high he can’t help it, the smile, the blood, the skin.

harry wants to say, _sometimes i hated you so much i’d spit blood_ , because it’s the fucking truth. but that’s not what louis wants to hear, so he buries it, kisses louis instead, kisses him like he’s asking a question, like he needs an answer.

-

his phone is dead when they tumble into bed a third time. dawn is approaching fast like blood running down the basin of a white sink towards the drain. harry watches as light filters onto louis’ face, the way his freckles have faded with age, his tan less prominent, his hair darker. they’ve aged, and harry is looking at someone so different from the version he was fixated in his mind. it’s intoxicating, new.

“ _garçon or_ ,” harry murmurs in rapture, nipping at louis’ nose, “golden boy.”

“not anymore,” louis shrugs. he sits up them, bracketing harry with his knees, grabbing at harry’s wrists, pushing them against the mattress. “listen to me.”

harry listens, bones shivering, wanting a blanket. louis looms over him, a striking image, decadence, decay, the urgent, maddening look in his eyes. harry struggles against his hold, wanting to cup his face, press the pads of his fingers into the softness underneath louis’ eyes, but it’s not hard to overpower him these days. his muscles are growing weaker the longer he stays.

“i’ve lost you once,” louis decides. he is quivering with the capacity in his voice, the sheer weight of it, the angry insistence, but to harry he sounds like a petulant, powerful child who has misplaced his toy. harry laughs in his face.

“and you’re going to lose me again,” he smiles, shrugging under louis’ grip. his hands are trembling, his arms and shoulders too, and harry rolls out from under him, pressing louis in the mattress, a knee between his thighs. harry brushes a hand over louis’ face, the fringe of his hair. “nothing ever lasts, lou.”

“this has,” louis insists, but he becomes visibly weaker, a fire put out. “it always has.”

it’s a feeling harry will never find the words to describe, this tangible light, this terrible weight in his chest. louis touches him like he is an open wound, louis touches him like he cannot help himself. harry knows this is something time won’t heal.

-

the day passes in a haze of louis’ open liquor cabinet and poached eggs on toast, the clumsy way harry’s hands mould on his skin, pressing into louis, memorising him. they’re watching the sun go down in louis’ bed, tangled and restless in the sheets. it is so peaceful here, harry thinks, tucked away in this moment.

louis asks, “i saw you with that tall bloke, at south place hotel,” and he shrugs like he is indifferent. harry remembers, though he had just taken a large dosage of pain killers for his nerve damage in his hip and leg that everything he remembers has a distant, foggy quality to it.

“nick. he’s a radio dj. he’s a friend,” harry explains simply.

“but not a friend you fuck,” louis teases, raising a brow. it’s not quite a question. louis says it in a way that means he wants harry to know it’s okay. he’s not a far cry from the jealous boy harry grew up with, but it’s significant. it’s enough.

harry laughs quietly, pressing his fingers into louis’ cheek. “nah. i mean, just the once. but we’re strictly, you know. friends.”

nick is smart enough to know a lit grenade when he sees one, and harry could never fault him that. he watches as louis presses a hand up harry’s spine, then back down around his hip, nonetheless. “i saw this earlier,” he says, pressing against harry’s surgery scar, “i didn’t ask.”

he feels solemn with the weight of the answer, “i have diabetes, lou. and i had complications with my kidneys. so i was put on a list and they gave a new one.”

louis’ grip tightens on his hip, “and you’re not ill anymore.”

it doesn’t matter, anymore. he presses his mouth to louis’, tasting yesterday's sunrise and tequila, and harry knows his hands are shaking when they come up to grip louis’ face but he doesn’t care.

-

it’s as if they’ve fallen back exactly where they lay last time, broken and unforgiving in pieces, but now they’re different. louis is older, with longer fringe and an angular face; his blue eyes intense and inquisitive. there’s a laptop on his desk filled with invoices, emails, and work requirements rather than a stack of st peter's text books. a woman’s night robe hangs on the back of the bathroom door, and harry runs it through his fingers; it smells like patchouli. there is a picture of his sisters on his fireplace mantle, proper pots and pans in his kitchen.

his sax is nowhere to be seen. harry wants to ask, but it feels like the death of someone between them. he doesn’t want to upset louis by bringing it up.

he handles harry differently, touching not to bruise but to leave impressions, to make sure he remembers. he kisses with his mouth, not his teeth, his smile bright and earnest, perhaps a little weathered. there is something broken and grown the way he stands.

harry is not the same either, he knows. he’s still slender but not some _louer garçon._  his soul expanded, developed, healed, while he studied at le sorbonne in paris. he's older, now, older than louis when they met. he is taller too, with sloping shoulders, a longer nose, tattooed arms, a more prominent jaw. he is not little boy anymore, begging for a kiss, for a touch. he understands now, what he said to zayn all those years ago in spain: sometimes, people just don’t love properly.

this is what he knows to be true. he came back to london, knowing that if he saw louis again, never will he expect louis to love him the way he always wanted when they were together, when harry was at st. peter's. never will he expect love at all.

louis watches him with a sense of wariness, like harry’s finally caught on to a grand secret they rest of the world was in on before. he watches harry like he wants him, but the same way one wants the heat of fire: close enough before they are burned. _oh_ , harry thinks, marveling, giggling, drunk on this feeling, on louis and his ocean eyes, on tequila, _how've they've grown_.

-

he waits until louis falls asleep, and then he calls a cab to take him back to bermondsey. harry can feel the true effects of his withdrawal now, and he needs to take his medication as soon as possible. drinking with a ruined body was stupid enough to be suicidal, never mind the coke, but maybe part of harry wanted to see what would happen. the pain takes the need from recklessness away. he feels weak, like he does in the car after a dose of dialysis and all the traffic horns sound like pindrops in his head.

harry places his fingers deliberately over his kneecaps and watches them tremble, unable to hold still. his hip hurts, as does his leg. he needs a shot of cortisone and b12. he needs his fucking drugs. he feels himself become irritable, fuming with anger at the failure of his body, at the bloody fucking mess he’s in, shivering against the cheaper leather of the backseat.

his cab driver eyes him a moment, taking him in. harry can imagine him thinking, _drunk fucking kid. probably drugged up. probably some hooker. must be a faggot_ -

well, he’d be right about it.

harry drops his keys twice as he tries to get into niall’s flat, and he curses at himself, feeling a tantrum come on. harry pushes himself in, making his way to niall’s bedroom, knees knocking together clumsily. niall is sitting on his laptop, which he closes as soon as he sees harry standing by the door.

harry’s never seen niall look the way he does now. “where,” niall spits, face already red, “the fuck have you been?”

“out, you know,” harry mumbles, coughing into his elbow. he peels off his jumper, kicks off his jeans. “sorry.”

“you’re fucking kidding me. haz. it’s been two fucking days,” niall yells in disbelief, and his voice grates against harry’s ears, head throbbing. “you turned off your phone. i didn’t even know if you had some kind of seizure and were lying dead somewhere in a ditch or-“

“well, i wasn’t,” harry cuts him off shortly, until he’s just in his shorts. he stalks his way to the tub, starting the water. “i said sorry.”

“you’re a prick,” niall shakes his head, hand rubbing his forehead. harry watches the bath fill, too tired to stand for a shower. he feels like he might be sick, and his hip aches something fierce, like his entire left leg is filled with lead and he’s been dragging it around all day, “you look bloody awful, too.”

“thanks,” harry’s tone is short but he doesn’t care. “i feel bloody awful.”

“christ, haz,” niall says his name like a tired curse. he sighs, opening all of harry’s medications on the bathroom counter and dosing them. harry opens his hand, waiting for it like a child. the bathroom spins, and he sways with it. niall closes in on him, pushes his hair back from his head. “is that a bruise? what the fuck did you do?”

“tripped and hit the sink ledge,” he shrugs easily, leaving out that he and louis had been so drunk by midday they were falling over each other like children playing freeze tag, making a mess of themselves, their limbs tangled like extensions of one another.

“yeah, and this?” niall pushes up on a cruise on harry’s collarbone, making him giggle and swat his hand.

“that’s just a hickey, ni,” harry laughs. niall rolls his eyes, nearly chipping one of harry’s front teeth shoving a water glass at him. harry relents, swallowing a handful of pills and trying not to choke on them when he washes them down.

harry feels guilty instantly when niall just sighs instead of saying something snarky in return, closing the door behind him for harry to strip and get into the tub. harry is used to guilt, the kind that simmers on just the edge of his brain, a reminder. this is hot and sharp in his gut, making heat rise in his cheeks.

he steps into the tub, the hot water soaking his bones, his scar tingling. he feels nauseous as he lies on his side, his left hip facing out, sick enough to want to close his eyes and count to ten like his nurse taught him to when it became particularly unbearable. he is unable to keep his mind off louis, the way his hair looked plastered to his forehead when they had showered, smelling like steam and kissing until they had to break apart, water dripping into their noses.

harry blinks to the incessant noise on the door. “harry?” niall’s voice calls out, “it’s been thirty minutes. y’alright?”

“i think i just lost half an hour,” harry mumbles, sitting up like he’s not just blacked out. he rubs his eyes, looking down at the water; most of the foam from his bath has dispersed, and his skin is pruny and wrinkled. “fuck, hold on.”

niall doesn’t wait for much longer, which harry is secretly grateful for, because he’s struggling to get out of the tub and he’s half-heartedly washed his hair. niall is wearing his night clothes, dark sweatpants that look worn and lived in and a t shirt harry’s never seen before. it looks like something zayn would wear.

“you are a sad case, head,” niall mutters, motioning for harry to sit back down in the tub. harry complies, nonplussed about modesty. niall cups his hand in the water and brings it back up to rinse the rest of the soap out of harry’s hair.

niall hums under his breath, all his previous anger forgotten in the moment: that is what harry loves most about his adopted brother. niall forgives as sure as the sun will rise in the morning, perhaps sometimes when he shouldn’t. his laughter is the colour of viridian and just as bright; the way he nudges harry’s ribs, like he’s telling him a joke he’d never dare share with anyone else.

“i am sorry,” harry swallows, his voice small. this usually works, and he feels tired, his bones shot like they’ve aged a hundred years. niall helps him stand then, and harry hobbles into a pair of joggers with fleece lining, pants forgotten.

“look, don’t do that again,” niall knocks him in the shoulder, and harry nods, feeling his trazodone kick in he brushes his teeth, leaning all his weight into the basin. harry is so drugged up at this point he would probably agree to anything niall asked. “you can’t - you know i’d never use it against you but - “

here is what niall is trying to say but won’t: you are fragile and you are not careful enough and you are a child, harry. you are not invincible.

niall doesn’t want to say these things out loud, though, and for that harry is grateful, because he is not ready to hear them just yet. he knows he has a timeline, a calendar, a checkpoint he must pass. being with louis these past two days, a whirlwind, an entanglement, a death sentence all wrapped up in a boy; it has taught harry that he is not infinite, he is not stardust, and he will not live forever.

harry curls up in what used to be gemma’s side of the bed while niall watches syndicated repeats of friends, a hand rubbing harry’s back until he falls asleep. it is a luxury money could never buy, the way niall touches harry, with affection, without advantageous agenda, without wanting to hurt, without deceit.

he falls asleep to sitcom laughter, his dreams an endless circle of smoke.

-

“so?” harry can tell niall has him on speaker in his office from the way he echoes. harry slumps into the back of his cab as it pulls away from hampstead hospital, his hands itchy, his skin shivery. he clutches his iphone tighter.

“so my doctor said i was going to go on another list, but until then i’d keep at dialysis, and it’s - it’s a lot fucking longer than we thought - “

“hey,” niall’s voice is rushed and quiet now, so harry’s no longer on speaker. “hey, don’t get upset. look, you want me to take the day off early? we’ll go out. wherever you want.” he sounds placating, but harry’s chest stutters, and he realises he wants that more than anything. he stares at the inside of the cab, at the rain of early april and all of london’s dreadful gray glory.

“yeah,” harry nods, feeling sleepy. his head lolls slightly, and his eyelids become heavy. “yeah, meet me at your’s. i’m almost there.”

niall drives them out southwest, towards greater london. louis used to always hate this part of the city, even though that’s where he spent most of his time; perhaps that was why. harry doesn’t mind the quaint high street of chiswick, nor the brusque suburbs of mortlake. barnes, a borough right on the river thames, was one of the most beautiful.

something is playing on the radio but harry can't hear it. they pass through richmond and harry asks niall to pull over. he pukes, then, on the side of the road, his breakfast and the gelatin the nurse gave him coming up green and sickly. harry wipes his mouth, trying to swallow his agitation back down. it burns; whether it’s the acid or the anger, harry can’t tell.

“look,” niall exhales sharply, “let’s just go walk by the river.”

harry likes this idea. the trees at the beginnings of petersham are thick with spring and lush with rainwater, the tide of the river not yet too high for them to walk around the perimeter of one of the greens. niall pulls out two pairs of wellies out of his boot like he goes on walks like these a lot. harry doesn’t ask.

they walk a bit, harry in an oversized gant windbreaker, his wool sweater itching his neck where it rubs. he breathes in and the air is thick with precipitation; it tastes good in his mouth. “m’sorry i’m being a tit,” harry says finally after dredging in the mud for a good half hour.

niall shrugs like it doesn’t matter, already forgiven. he looks ruggish and endearing in his bespoke suit and muddy green boots. “you’re not.”

“it’s just - “ harry stops, standing out and looking at the river as it swirls around the bend. he wishes it would produce answers. he wishes it would swallow him whole. he doesn’t know. he’s never had thoughts like that. niall waits, patient. “it’s all coming down around me now.” harry says finally.

he knows niall can hear the panic in his tone. “haz,” niall warns, almost like he’s about to scold. he shakes his head then. “don’t let it bother you yet. it’s going to work out.”

“how can it?” harry whips around, his voice high, betraying him. he looks at niall. “it doesn’t look good anymore. the numbers don’t add up for me, ni. i’ve spoken with doctors here, then france, then here again. none of them have answers, and they all say the same thing: wait.”

niall doesn’t respond, but his face screws up in a way that tells harry he’s trying not to get emotional, that he’s trying to reserve hope. but niall is no idiot: the dialysis wears harry down, makes him fatigued and achy, creates more problems that need more medication to fix him until he’s so altered there is no harry left inside; just pills and bad blood.

“i’m scared,” harry admits, “i don’t know what i’m supposed to do anymore.”

“you’re supposed to try,” niall argues, his voice like gravel. “if not for yourself then for everyone around you. for your sister. your grandmother. me.”

“if it gets hard,” harry clears his throat, snot running from his nose. “you have to promise to see it to the end.”

niall shakes his head defiantly, cross. “there will be no bloody end, harry,” he coughs. “christsakes, you’re going to be fine. you listen to me: you’re gonna be okay. you’re just feeling a little fucked up right now, with all this medication. that’s okay. it’ll be over.”

harry nods then. he makes it sound so easy: it will be over soon, and he’ll be okay. and yet. “but still. promise me.”

“you fucking idiot,” niall cusses, glaring at him, but his eyes are wide and glassy and so, so blue, “i promise.”

it begins to rain on their way back to the car. the trees blur like photographs inside harry’s brain on the ride home.

-

it’s the first sunny sunday april has seen.

niall is somehow cornered into brunch with the boys, and harry begs to come along. he had spent all weekend in bed, his head pounding so hard he had to cancel all his plans with nick. niall looks like he’d like to do anything but bring harry, but harry is insistent, and plays sad like no other.

it’s a nice place, not unlike the brunch party he and nick and aimee crashed at south place a few weeks ago. harry dresses in white and mint green, earning a pinch on his cheek from niall, surely taking the piss. niall drives, this time, instead of taking a car with the excuse of having the option of leaving when he wants. the ledbury is a french restaurant, at least, tucked away near westbourne park.

naturally, they’re nearly late. zayn is sitting wearing his usually dark palette, and a young woman is next to him, wearing some of kind of a twisted velvet turban and a lavender dress; this is probably his wife malia from what harry can surmise. she holds the same kind of body language as zayn does, beautiful, stiff and unaware, almost like a statue. if her unhappiness could be translated into beauty, harry thinks, as they move around servers and other guests, she’d have the world in her hand.

liam is opposite them, tanned and good looking as he’s always been, his face nearly split in halves by his smile. louis is giggling behind his hand next to him, no doubt sharing a some salacious secret. beside him, harry recognises eleanor, a dainty, demure doll, pretty in light pink chiffon. she looks bored, her nimble fingers playing with a cigarette.

niall sighs, “here comes a shit storm,” he mutters darkly, earning an elbow to the ribs from harry.

they sit, and harry watches as louis’ eyes zero in on him as everyone else welcomes him back officially to london, smiles on their faces. never mind he’s been in london for a couple of months now; never mind this will be gossiped about for weeks, never mind harry is sure they are wary of him entering their tight knit circle once again. they’re good at looking happy, at least, warm and cheerful, as they are good at everything else. it’s almost like looking at a very pretty picture, rich with colour and filthy with grandeur.

niall is dragged into a conversation with zayn about his recent feature in time and the politics of his office, one which malia interjects often. she has a tough, commanding voice, and she looks at zayn with a kind of reserved, skeptical adoration.

“how’ve you been, harry?” liam smiles, squeezing his shoulder. he’s had too much sun since the last time harry saw him last; a year ago in cannes by almost accident. but he looks the most genuine. liam is the deceptive more than anyone else, that way. he tricks himself in order to trick anyone else: it’s hard to imagine liam as anything but radiant.

“very well, thanks,” harry nods, skimming his menu. he can feel louis watching him, but he doesn’t take the bait, not yet. “heard about what you’ve been doing in australia. sounds rather like hard work.”

liam laughs, “yeah, suppose. but it’s a good bit. my father’s company still manages the hotels in london, which is great because it means i have full control to build a new chain of them in a very up and coming part of sydney.”

“an empire fit for a king,” louis inserts, grinning playfully. he looks at liam with honest warmth. funny, how good he is at giving love as he is at taking it away. harry smiles, shrugging.

“you look good, lou,” he mumbles, his voice low, and louis nods, eyes directed down into his lap. harry finds his foot under the table and taps twice, just to watch the flash of louis’ eyes, the emergence of a small smirk.

“you’ve certainly never seen the ugly side of the pillow, harry,” louis returns, and then clears his throat. “i’m terrible. eleanor, this is harry. he’s old st. peter’s crowd.”

“pleased,” eleanor says primly, smiling. she stares at harry like she’s never heard of him, or not sure she’s supposed to; but harry remembers her, the arguments over her, the way louis was enraptured with her all through university. she must be a prize, if she’s lived this long in louis’ radar. perhaps she knows exactly who he is, but she - like the rest of them - is excellent at being disinterested and politely sour.

they order and eat, harry then stealing niall’s creme brulee right off his plate when he’s not paying attention. they’re all immersed in discussion, arguments, stories, the words filtering in and out of harry’s ears without much importance.

he finds louis lingering stare, to which louis nods once. and harry thinks he could be saving a thousand things in that one small inclination of his chin; this is the beauty and frustration that is louis tomlinson. harry will never stop craving it, never stop wanting it. love has burnt them both to the ground, and here they are, reborn from it’s ashes.

harry smiles, shrugging, and louis laughs then, quiet and sincere.

-

april 2016 / may 2016

liam wakes to a skype phone call, the tone blaring as he rolls over, wiping his eyes as he squints against the light seeping in from the hotel balcony.

it’s sophia. he answers, “hey, babe.”

she smiles sweetly, her camera not angled right so he mostly gets her eyes and her forehead. “morning. shit, did i wake you? it’s not like i’m forgetting about the time difference, i just…well, forget about the time difference.”

liam chuckles, pulling his laptop into his lap, propping up one of his pillows. he almost tells her to correct her camera, but she does it nearly all the time and he figures at this point it’s a lost cause. he doesn’t want to be redundant. “how’re you?”

“good,” sophia nods, “it’s finally starting to get cold here. i’m expecting it’s lovely in london.”

“london is the same as ever,” liam shrugs dismissively, “i miss it down there. i’m flying back out mid june. can’t wait to see you.”

“i can’t either,” she laughs, “but i miss london during the spring. my girlfriends say it will get chilly down here, but i’m not convinced just yet. i could always come visit, you know,” she tips her head up briefly, and liam finds himself smiling. he wishes he could touch her now, smell her lotion and feel the long tips of her hair brush his arm.

“don’t bother. i’m booked with meetings and paperwork, it wouldn’t be all that enjoyable,” he shakes his head, “we can come back together. i know my mum is just about ready to pitch a fit if i don’t come round the old place.”

“oh, the haunted house in the countryside,” sophia teases, eyebrows wiggling, “and your mum. how romantic.”

“oh, quiet,” liam rolls his eyes, “you’re being silly. she loves you.”

“she’s exquisite, of course. but no one is perfect enough for her baby boy,” sophia isn’t put out by his mother’s lack of enthusiasm for their relationship because she thinks it’s how his mum has always been. liam will never tell her any different. he imagines then the summers spent with his mum in spain, the three or four weeks that zayn would come visit, how he used to latch onto her like a second child.

“look, love, i’ve got to go - early meeting - but i’ll ring you later, yeah? text me about your day. i miss you,” liam rushes, already pushing his macbook back to the bed.

“alright, liam. miss you too - “ she says, smiling into the webcam before signing off.

he sighs, looking at the high ceilings of the harrington. he can already hear the small bustle of life outside, and thinks it’s too late to go back to sleep now. so he rolls out of bed and into some decent running clothes. it’s not half six, lazy on his routine, but it’ll do.

by quarter eight he’s in the hotel gym, his three miles on a treadmill not nearly as enjoyable as it is outside on the beach in oz, or in the back country behind his mother’s home. but it works.

by nine he’s showered and dressed, teeth brushed, moisturized, and he finds himself staring at the rumpled sheets, the messy way the pillows are piled one side, the aspirin on the table, the half empty glass of water on the ledge. these are the only remnants of zayn from the night before. liam takes in the room in all it’s entirety, and calls maid service before he’s out the door.

-

“you know, i don’t like this,” louis whines for the third time in under twenty minutes. liam rolls his eyes, standing outside the toilet door. “you’re the worst person i know.”

“i’m the best person you know, lou,” liam retorts, a dry laugh stuck in his throat, “certainly the only one who will put with you at this point.”

the toilet flushes, and louis emerges from the bathroom with a calm, traitorous look on his face. it’s fitting, somehow, or perhaps liam is just used to it; only louis could be both at once. louis hands him over a sealed cup of pee, still warm, which liam puts in a plastic bag.

“you may not like this, lou,” liam shrugs, “but i don’t like liars for friends.”

“please,” louis scoffs, sauntering into the kitchen and opening his fridge, bare feet crossed like he’s a small child looking for a treat, “all your friends are liars. lying is all you know. you’d never see a truth if it hit you in face.”

“bull,” liam shakes his head, “and this is different. you know it is.”

louis does know it. liam thinks back to the morning he let himself into louis’ new flat in kensington, the tiny bag of coke he found in the hall, the disastrous state of the bedroom; the destroyed mirrors, the blood on the sink ledge, the bruises all over louis’ neck and arms. liam had thought the worst, of course, that louis’ been mugged by a dealer, or that he’d overdosed, and he’d started to shake louis so hard he nearly broke the his clavical, but there was a few minutes in time where liam thought he’d have go on living without louis forever, and that was a fate he could not fathom.

it was one of the only times liam had ever seen lou break down, still high from the night before and clawing at his face as he panicked. _i don’t want to be high_ , he had screamed at liam, tugging at his hair, _make it stop_.

two years of drug sobriety down the drain because louis inability to stop his addiction to harry styles. liam secretly thanks that harry is tame enough only to snort; liam does not want to picture his reaction if it had been louis’ old favorite. heroin never looked good, even on the wealthy and meretriciously beautiful.

liam wonders briefly about the state of harry’s health under the influence of cocaine with detached interest, like a child watching an insect suffer and losing focus on it’s almost certain death. he cannot be bothered, at the moment with the affairs of harry styles.

 _the great gatsby_ is playing on the telly in louis’ front room, and louis sits on the couch with a bowl of frozen grapes, feet up on the dark wooden coffee table, littered with large art books liam knows louis’ never opened. a copy of the new time’s most influential sits at the top of several magazines next to a wooden bowl filled with clear baubles; zayn is one of the faces on the cover.

he looks different on paper, liam thinks. like he could be anyone. liam remembers when louis had bought it because they had to go to a newsstand that sold american magazines and louis had complained that it was nearly five pounds for three flimsy articles. liam had sighed exasperated, and he does now just thinking about it. louis only complains about money when he has absolutely nothing else to criticise. he remembers louis reading zayn’s tagline with cheesy bravado: twenty one years and a twenty billion dollar oil conglomerate: why zayn malik’s age makes all the difference.

“stop shuffling around like a nob and watch this with me,” louis orders without tearing his gaze away from the screen, as leo dicaprio smiles over the lip of his martini.

“i like the robert redford version better,” liam makes aware, but sits down on the other couch anyway, kicking off his nikes.

“i know,” louis nods, still not looking away, “but you’re also toting around a cup of human urine, and so i don’t think your opinion matters much anyhow.”

no, liam thinks, leaning back into a white throw pillow, louis is probably right.

-

his mother drives in for the weekend, and liam takes her to high tea at the four seasons. she brings several assorted poetry books and self-help guides, all of which she reads out excerpts to liam as if this advice - directed mostly for menopausal women who are experiencing empty nest syndrome - will be useful to him.

he says nothing and listens to it all. sometimes he imagines his mother talking until even the housekeepers tell her to quiet, until her friends stop answering her calls; until all she’s left with is an empty house and photographs of a marriage that ruined her and a son who doesn’t visit often enough. liam looks at his mother, the softness of her face, the dainty curl of her blonde bob, and feels an immense, terrible sadness of someone who is vulnerable, fragile. he cannot possibly stand her getting any older.

zayn is spinning out of the harrington glass doors, donned in his work clothes, look harried when liam and his mum are just arriving. liam watches for the moment zayn recognises them, how his face shifts:, his smile is almost inspiring, the way it fits into place without so much as a stutter.

they embrace as they hadn’t just seen each other just the night before, this game an old one they’re good at playing; his mum is absolutely delighted to see zayn and she insists that they all go out for a stroll through the hyde park and catch up.

“you look amazing as usual, karen,” zayn compliments with twinkling eyes, sending liam’s mum into a spin. zayn has that dazzling effect on people. it’s always driven liam absolutely mad.

“i’m sure it’s been so long since you boys have seen each other,” his mum sighs, linking arms with zayn and leading him back towards the way they came. zayn grins at liam above her head, winking, the arsehole, and nods seriously where karen can see him.

“yeah, liam’s been having a proper good time down under,” zayn says agreeably, his smile equal parts rueful and reminiscent, “i don’t think i need to tell you how wonderful it’s been having him here now.”

liam wants to pinch him but can’t do so around his mum without her noticing. she smiles, patting zayn’s hand. “he should visit more, shouldn’t he?” his mum asks, “zayn, tell my son he should visit more.”

“liam,” zayn demands with swaggering buster, his brow furrowed in mocking, “it’s actually insulting you don’t visit us more. we’re beginning to feel like you think you’re too good for us brits.”

it’s an easy, memorable pattern with liam’s mum. it’s bittersweet, the way they fall into step with each other, their friendship as simple as muscle memory, the banter and laughter coming to liam without him having to think of forcing it. they loop around through the kensington gardens, doubling back for dinner. as they stroll, liam catches zayn’s eye and he smiles quietly; his mum’s incessant chatter falling into a background hum for just a second. zayn smiles also, closing his eyes briefly.

liam doesn’t know why he does it; but he likes to think zayn was savoring the moment, too.

-

“your mum is still sweet on me,” zayn whispers into liam’s mouth much later that evening, when the city has slowed and a borough like south ken has coming to nearly a halt. liam picked this hotel precisely because he knew it would be quiet in the evenings. it’ll never replace the pin drop silence of the countryside, the crickets and the breeze, but it’s okay. it’ll work. liam can’t remember what that home felt like, anyway.

“course she is,” liam whispers, finding zayn’s hand and intertwining their fingers. he sighs against the scent of zayn’s skin, his mouth pressing open against the stubble of zayn’s cheek. “she loves you.”

“not like i love you,” zayn counters.

liam knows this: if anything is true, then it is the way zayn loves liam like no other. he understands now, about the catholic martyrs, he understands the act of sitting quietly and lighting oneself on fire, he understands now, the choking, suffocating reckoning of fate. liam’s seen the hand he’s been dealt. he’s never once stopped asking for a new one.

zayn slips off his wedding ring, the way it clinks against the bedside table something liam will never forget. he takes off his suit jacket, lies it on the back of the desk chair.

“wait,” liam says, “i want to shower first. i dressed too warmly and i’ve been sweating, trying to keep after my mother.”

“don’t bother,” zayn shrugs, “i like the way you smell. like earth.”

“i don’t smell like dirt, do i?” he asks, lifting his arm to smell.

“no,” zayn laughs, “no. i didn’t say that, did i?”

liam finds himself distracted from the task at hand, because zayn has come around the bed to touch him again, his knuckles brushing down liam’s cheekbone. his face is filled with light, his usually intense stare softened and sweet. he looks exhausted, but neither of them seem to notice nor care.

he thinks then, to their last year of school, and then subsequently followed by liam’s first year at kings, the way they touched each other, free and open, without restraint. liam remembers thinking as a boy that he suffered something so greatly in his heart, to be denied something as beautiful as zayn. he had never been told no before then.

but that was nothing. that was a mere hiccup, the restraint they had as boys. liam knows now, in his heavy heart, the real binds of not reaching for zayn over the table at brunch, or stopping himself from calling at three in the morning when he can’t sleep; it can be as simple and as difficult as meeting malia, and not hating her, and realising he doesn’t want to hate her, either. it’s the difficulty of knowing, deep down where he won’t admit it, how this will really end; that is has an ending at all.

it is fourteen hour time differences and a year of trying not to think of him every time he passed the hotel they stayed at the first time they were in sydney together. seeing zayn’s face on a magazine. seeing zayn’s face in his sleep.

liam doesn’t know what he believes in, whether it’s god or something else, but he knows if it’s true what they say about being born over and over as a different person, every single version of liam would find all the different zayns, because there is something that runs deeper, here. there is something more.

no one should taste like home, like memory, like a song liam heard when he fifteen and still can’t get out of his bloody head. this is not love, not like he loves his mum, or his mates, or sophia; this is not love. this is something far more, the way he can’t seem to move on from zayn, or find anything quite as good.

“hey,” zayn’s voice calls him out of his brain like taking cotton out of his ears, “come back. be here. be here with me.”

“yeah,” liam nods, pressing his forehead against zayn’s, holding his hands over the nape of his neck. he closes his eyes then, licking his lips. “i’m here.”

-

brunch is a nostalgic affair, something liam does truly miss about this city and his friends; the decadence, the ridiculous breakfast champagne, mimosas, bloody mary’s. it was probably the only tradition louis was ever able to keep himself, and perhaps for that reason alone is why it still exists for them post university. their parents dined with their friends before them, and liam’s sure, their parents before.

the ledbury is one of his mother’s favorite restaurants, and the familiarity of it’s insides make him feel warm, remembering it from the days he was a child and his father would take the three of them into the city for a weekend.

louis meets him before he’s able to be seated, hair tossed to the side of his head, the lapel of his yellow blazer wrinkled.

“li,” he elbows liam childishly, grinning and clapping his back in greeting. “sorry. el’s coming. something about being able to drive my jag gets her horny.”

“lou,” liam shakes his head, scolding. it feels like settling into a second skin. louis shrugs, completely unbothered by liam’s lack of enthusiasm, like he expects nothing less. a server seats them at one of the larger round table, and liam cocks his head to the side. “how many people are we expecting?”

“zayn, malia, el, niall,” louis says, sitting down. “i practically had to force him since you were in london for once. he’s should a little hermit sometimes, i swear. all he does is work now, and hide out in that empty flat of his.”

eleanor comes into view, her dress reminding liam of the tulips his mother use to buy every easter when they’d travel to holland for the festival. she waves at liam but doesn’t say anything, pulling her phone and a stylus out of a small purse and begins, from what liam can tell, to make notes. louis rolls his eyes but doesn’t say anything.

“not everyone can be a successful entrepreneur overnight, can we,” liam excuses, picking up from earlier, “it must be tough, you know. him and annie - i think they were supposed to be partners. now he’s doing it all himself.”

louis considers this. something always flickers in his face when annie is ever brought up in front of him, in such a way that makes liam morbidly curious. he’s never asked directly, because bringing annie up is like pressing on a bruise that everyone tries to forget about. louis is so obviously vulnerable where it counts.

zayn and malia arrive like a sleek high profile power couple you’d see featured in a tom ford advert . louis smiles, standing up to embrace malia, who looks stunning in purple with her hair tucked up into some kind of headband. liam can tell she’s adopted some of zayn’s mannerisms, the way she restrains the full spectrum of her smile, how her ankles knock together when she stands straight and tall, with her shoulders pulled taut.

zayn is a dark horse in velvety black, his face clean shaven and angular, his long black eyelashes a curved line against his cheeks when he laughs. he pulls malia’s chair out for her and she sits, grinning up at him in thanks.

liam orders another drink.

“easy,” louis whispers, flicking liam’s wrist. “don’t abuse your grown boy privileges.”

“oh, toss off, lou,” liam moans, “is it me, or are you even more insufferable than usual?”

“no, it’s you,” he laughs, “haven’t been around me for some time. i dare say i’ve been abandoned for kangaroos and what are those dogs who eat children - dilly’s - “

“- dingos,” eleanor smirks, “and that’s merely a stereotype, i think.”

louis smiles, patting her leg underneath the table, his other hand on his drink. eleanor looks bored, swirling her champagne and watching the fizz rise in her flute. it’s alway surprised liam how louis looks at her, with patient, affectionate disinterest, and she the same to him. liam thinks he knows all the different shades of louis, all of his curves and entanglements after nearly being best mates their whole lives. while liam understands that as comfort, louis sees a challenge.

its liam’s turn to say, _easy, there,_ when harry styles arrives in tow with niall, the last to arrive for the brunch, but louis doesn’t so much as blink; as if harry was just an old mate from school, smiling graciously, and the words die in liam’s throat.

harry looks better, perhaps than liam last saw him a year ago in cannes, but worse overall; last spring harry had just had a brand new kidney replacement and he was supposed to look thin, withdrawn, and dreadful; liam knew. by now, he’s supposed to be better. and yet.

and yet it’s almost like liam can smell the sick off him now, underneath his cologne and the scent of his shampoo. he’s wearing a mint shirt and he does, in fact, look like some kind of french model darling, curls floppy and loose, his cheek bones cut like glass. his presence it is not unlike that horrid christmas spent in spain when they were merely boys, harry on the brink of his first hospitalisation. his eyes were large and glassy then, too. he remembers now, seeing harry that serendipitous weekend in cannes two years later, all the memories flooding back to him. they never talked about it, and liam never mentioned to louis he had seen harry. he ignores the flood of saliva in his mouth, the guilt.

now, harry has a distinct bedroom eye, like he’s incredibly tired or incredibly stoned. he looks pale faced and meek in contrast to niall, whose bright blonde hair and ruddy cheeks radiate an image of health that requires no upkeep and no care. niall leans over liam, running a hand down the back of his neck with affection.

they talk like old forgotten friends, though liam saw zayn the night before and louis just last thursday, but all the same, their conversation is easy, rolling in circles as the drinks don’t stop and the laughter grows raucous and loud. harry in pink cheeked as he giggles into his hand, louis’ eyes nearly twinkling, for fuck’s sake as he plays footsie with him under the table.

“i’m jealous of your tan,” malia remarks to him at one point, “there’s absolutely no sun in this city, even though it’s april, for christ's sake.”

liam smiles, and wants to say, i’m jealous of your marriage, but doesn’t. it’s not true, exactly, but he’s spiteful and tipsy and his quiche was half the size he thought it ought to be for the amount of champagne he’s been downing. “come visit, then, sometime. once the first hotel is open, we’ll send out official invitations.”

“that sounds amazing,” she gushes honestly, and because liam is a glutton for pain and glory, he watches as she puts her hand over zayn’s on the table, leaning into him. “we want to badly to holiday in sydney. i went as a child and fell in love there.”

liam laughs; he can’t help it, even though zayn glares at him. malia looks at him in poor, sweet oblivion, a question on her lips, and liam just shakes his head, trying to wipe the bitter smile off his face. “sorry, it’s just - i did too.”

-

“explain to me again why exactly you’re going to france with harry styles,” he sighs, pacing in louis’ living room and watching the downpour outside. april is turning out to be a shit month and london is nearly flooded again from all the storms. liam watches the dark swirl of the sky with every growing annoyance. he misses sydney. he misses sophia.

she is easy in comparison to london; she loves openly and freely and liam never has to second guess her words, looking for lies or agenda or dishonesty. when she says she loves him, he never stays up late to dissect what she meant. because she means it the first time. he loves louis, and niall, and zayn, but they are a constant, never relenting force from all sides and liam is fucking exhausted.

in sydney, no one really knows the stories behind his last name or his father except his immediate staff, and even they don’t know the details of liam’s family scandal and the string of his father’s mistresses. not the way people know all about it in london. this city chews up all of liam’s privacy and spits it back out at him, disfigured and warped.

“because harry styles is french. do i need a reason?” louis chirps as he throws things in a suitcase. he’s half dressed and only wearing one sock, and this makes liam almost stupid with affection for his oldest friend. “and i needed a holiday.”

“you make an occasional appearance in the your office. you work from home four days a week, lou,” liam rolls his eyes, but louis looks as if he’s still waiting for the point to be made. he has a cigarette tucked behind his ear, which he pulls and lights a moment later, sitting on one of the armchairs in his living room.

“look,” louis’ voice turns gruff and serious as he leans down to fix his sock, pulling the other one from his pocket, of all places. liam nearly laughs. “harry asked me to go with him to visit. i said yes. what is your actual question, li?”

“my actual question is if you know what a bloody stupid idea this is,” he snaps, “you and harry had reunited for what, maybe thirty seconds before he’s giving you ecstasy and snorting coke - that’s two years of fucking recovery you so easily threw away - “

“listen,” louis holds up his hand, his mouth pursed, “not that i owe you any explanation, li, but haz didn’t force it down my throat. i took it,” louis admits quietly, “i wanted to.”

in retrospect liam will realise that louis has never taken blame from anyone and placed it on himself before. this moment in their friendship is important. liam wishes he took more time to realise that what louis is saying is important. but he’s exhausted, and there’s anger and resentment tight and hot in his shoulders.

“you lose control too much around him,” liam accuses, “i don’t want to see you end up at some fucking rehab again.”

“i’m not asking you to see me anywhere. fuck’s sake, li,” louis throws up his hands, “you’re not my keeper. i’m a big boy now, didn’t you know?”

“don’t kid yourself with thinking you’re mature,” liam shakes his head, rubbing his temple. “you’re going away, for how long? does el have any say?”

louis stands up, his brow furrowed in irritation. “eleanor doesn’t give a shit. she knows what we are to each other. she’s not trapped in some fantasy about who i am.”

liam doesn’t have anything to say to that, because he knows louis is right; eleanor may look like a flower but she’s underneath that pretty skin and her unassuming smile are thorns and apathy. she was raised like them, liam forgets. she’s hard like them, too.

“s’funny,” louis says then, in a tone that suggests its not going to be funny at all, “you’re going ‘round, fucking zayn again like you can just pick up where you left off. and yet, so worried about what a trip to st. tropez may do to eleanor’s feelings.”

he takes a puff of his cigarette them, dangling between two fingers, and he smiles like he’s sad for liam. he shrugs, “he’s not in love with you, li.”

“he’s not in love with malia, either,” liam snarls before he can stop himself. louis eyes him.

“okay, that may be true,” he admits, “but he’s married. no other way around it. you know that. you’re so smart, liam, and yet so utterly fucking stupid.”

liam has no rebuttal for that. louis lights another cigarette, and they both turn to survey the street below them. it’s finally stopped raining, but liam doesn’t feel any relief from it.

-

he feels strange and restless the rest of the day, the city moist and wet and a dark, slaty gray. liam walks around feeling unearthed out of his own skin. he can’t stop thinking about louis’ words, the calm, haughty was he had confirmed liam’s most terrible thoughts. they were all true, of course, and all rational. louis is a devil that way. he sees through almost anything.

it’s late when he ends up back at his hotel, and he feels worn out from his thoughts running around in circles until he feels sick with it. zayn is married. fact. liam is aware of this. fact. zayn is not in love with him. well.

he doesn’t want to believe louis, but a small voice in his head tells him that louis wouldn’t lie like that. he’s grown out of his need to hurt just to watch something pretty self-destruct, or so liam thought. he remembers the louis liam had found after his overdose, three stone underweight and strung out, pleading with liam not to send him away.

 _i don’t need it_ , louis had screamed at him, fists curled in liam’s shirt, _don’t make me go there_.

louis had been lying liam had sent him anyway, and the both were better off from it. he wishes it were as simple as cut and dry rehab, go in wrecked with love, come out with a soul free of stains. liam smokes a joint, thinks i needs to get out of this fucking city.

zayn comes over at half two, his knock shy. liam is stoned and keyed up, kissing zayn before he nearly has time to come in. zayn laughs into his mouth, pleasantly surprised, kicking the door shut behind them with his foot.

“liam - “ zayn says his name like a question, and liam pulls away, hands still on zayn’s face, holding him there. “you okay?”

“i love you,” liam says firmly, the bite of louis’ words already starting to lose their backbone in his brain, zayn’s brown eyes soft and heartbreaking as he looks at liam with confusion, his smile fading on his face. “do you love me?”

zayn shakes his head, “course,” he says like it’s the most obvious, easy thing in the world. “i’ll always love you.”

but hearing it is not enough. he slides off zayn’s coat, his jumper. “okay,” liam nods, trying to breathe evenly, “prove it. fuck me.”

zayn raises a brow. they don’t do this often, whether from exhaustion or lack of time or too much stifled, ugly neediness between them that they cannot be bothered to slow down.

it’s fucking awful, really, the way they never slow down. it shouldn’t be. liam should focus on zayn’s touch as if his hands have the power him to stone; but all of his memories of zayn are blurry and distant, like a photograph of a photograph, tainted with resentment and longing. he has a hard time putting them in order. zayn has been his exhale before he learned how to hold his breath.

it’s not like this often, liam taking it, but something inside of him feels wrung out and hung to dry, tired. zayn holds him close like he’s something stolen, and liam ignores the way it makes him feel; like zayn shouldn’t be touching him, like this is illicit.

it’s not. liam was here first. he’s always been zayn’s first, and with a sick sense of satisfaction he always will be zayn’s first: their kiss in sydney under a blue moon, their first line together during a new years eve in new york, running around like children in the plaza hotel; the first time they fucked, on a yacht in the middle of the sea. liam has zayn’s first i love you and his first i hate you and i hate that you make me love you -

that’s all liam’s. that’s all he has. he’s not willingly to give it up.

zayn fucks into him with hipbones hitting at the back of liam’s thighs, a bruise to remind him later; liam bucks up into him like he’s greedy, like he’s honest. he looks up then, at zayn, and watches their fingers tangle together, press against the sheets. he can feel blood in his hears, his jaw aching as it clenches.

after, liam wishes he could call it lovemaking, but that’s not what it was. he is not delirious enough to think it, to hurt himself that way. he thought they were those boys once, but they’re not anymore.

“hey,” zayn is looking at him sharply, “hey. where are you?”

he could say, i’m right here, but that’s not what zayn means and liam knows it. so he says, “come to sydney.”

“yeah, i said i would,” zayn’s smile is unsure, “remember, malia - we both said we would as soon as you gave the go-ahead.”

liam shakes his head, frustrated. “no,” he sighs, an edge in his voice, “come with me. now. let’s go to sydney.”

there’s no answer right away, and something inside of liam sinks then. the test he set up for zayn has failed, but is liam who lost. he is so foolish. this city and this boy make him so stupidly foolish. finally zayn speaks, very quietly. “i don’t know why you bothered asking when you what the answer is.”

“i don’t know what the answer is,” liam argues, though he knows it’s petty, “i’ve never gotten a straight one from you in my entire life. so please. tell me you’ll come to sydney. watch the hotel build from the ground up. we’ve not been for so long, zed. years.”

zayn eyes him, suddenly withdrawn. “i’d be careful, liam,” he says slowly, like he’s unraveling something in his head, “it sounds like you’re asking me to choose.”

“yes!” liam sits up excitedly, the hotel sheet puddling around him. “that’s exactly what i’m doing. i’m asking you to choose. come with me. you’re not happy here.”  
  
“you don’t - my whole life is here,” zayn points out from where he’s leaning against the headboard. “my job. my friends. my family - malia is here. i can’t just get up and leave - i can’t betray her like that.”

his logic doesn’t make any sense, liam thinks to himself. “what do you think this is?” he gestures between them. “you already are betraying her by being here. and who are we kidding, zayn. it’s not like she’s so faithful to you.”

zayn’s eyes become narrowed and hard, like he cannot believe liam is talking the way he is, and liam watches, in some kind of stunned awe, finally striking a nerve. zayn presses a finger into liam’s chest like he’s scolding a child. “don’t,” he finally says.

liam can feel the pressure behind his hand, the way zayn now looms over him on the bed like he’s trying to take back the control. liam bats his hand away harshly, getting out of bed and pulling on his pants. he feels the place where zayn touched him, in the middle of his torso, like a burn.

“when you touch me like that,” he snarls, “when you try to intimidate me, that’s your father showing through.”

zayn looks as if he liam could have hit him. he rolls out of bed, stalking naked to the shower. “you know what?” he asks rhetorically, “i don’t need this.”

liam watches as he walks away, so easily able to put their entire conversation away like it’s unimportant to him; it’s easily the most honest they’ve been with each other for possibly the entire time liam’s been back in london. he hears the shower start.

“i think you do,” liam walks after him, pushing open the bathroom door. zayn turns around, glaring at liam through the glass shower door. liam yanks it open; he’s hit immediately with searing hot spray, wiping water out of his eyes “i think you need to hear it. you know why i think so? because i think you don’t realise it’s not okay to just treat people like they don’t matter.”

“liam,” zayn rears up, face screwed up in denial. “i don’t - “

“you do,” he yells, drowned out by the water, “you fucking do. i’d ask you about the first time you lied to her, but i think we both know it would take ages to remember. so tell me, zayn, when was the first time you told her to fuck off? when was the first time you hit her - “

“don’t,” zayn roars, pushing liam against the shower glass door suddenly; liam stumbles and falls back against it, but it doesn’t hurt. he stands there for a second, shaking his head and rubbing his shoulder. zayn isn’t looking at him, but down at their feet.

“you have a right to be angry, yeah?” liam argues, “you never had a chance, growing up. you never had a fucking chance at knowing anything else. but that was then, zayn.” he takes a deep, shuddering breath, inhaling water through his nose and sputtering. “and this is now. you have a chance now.”

“i can’t go with you,” zayn admits quietly, and his brow furrowed and desperate. “i can’t. i have to stay here. you know this. you told me you knew how this was going to end.”

“i know,” liam nods, taking a step closer, cornering zayn underneath the shower head. “i was hoping i’d be wrong.”

“li,” zayn laughs wetly, “you’re always right. always the straightest arrow.”

he remembers the way zayn and louis used to tease him about being the wet blanket at school, the way he’d hurry about them and put out the fires they lit, the trouble of being a privileged child in a world full of fucking matches, ready to be set aflame.

always the straightest arrow, pointing us home, they’d say, and laugh quietly to themselves. our liam is never wrong.

if only those boys could see what he is now.

“i don’t know what to do anymore,” he confesses, “i can’t have you. but i can’t let you go. you were my first love.”

zayn doesn’t have an answer. they don’t kiss when liam steps into his space and wraps a hand around zayn’s neck, bringing him in close and holding him there tightly. their skin is wet and hot from the water and liam is choking on the hot steam, but he doesn’t care. he doesn’t care much about anything.

-

in all fits of irony, zayn’s silence has always been liam’s answer. at least that has never changed about them.

-

may is a welcome change from the near flood of april, though liam still feels like he’s drowning. london and her people bloom once the sun has become a semi-permanent fixture in the sky. the skirts, cuffed chino shorts and saturday markets become a staple that liam starts to see everyday. he thinks about going to spend the rest of his holiday curled up with his mum in derbyshire, but even that is too bleak a solution. maybe just a weekend, to indulge her.

louis comes home within the first week with a brand new tan and a set of freckles across the bridge of his nose. he is weightless and loose limbed in a way liam hasn’t seen him in ages; he dares not call it happiness.

“how was france?” liam asks as he lies in louis’ bed underneath a pile of french shopping bags; louis digs through suitcases full of things and throws everything on the ground. the room is in a disarray in a matter of seconds, and liam watches as the hurricane picks up speed with mild interest.

“lovely,” louis shrugs, his tone not matching his sentence. he seems distracted and tired, despite his seemingly high spirits. “warm and beautiful. but of course, nothing beats - “

“- london,” liam finishes for him, and louis nods, kicking his dirty laundry and his suitcase out of his way, shrugging out of his shirt and changing once again, his body in constant, turbulent motion, like he can’t sit still. it’s different from the poison louis use to put in his body and the shakes it would give him. this is restlessness of the mind, the same kind that keeps liam awake at night.

finally he quits. “i’m knackered, christ,” he admits, flopping on his bed beside liam, shoulder leaning heavily on his elbow. louis kicks off the empty shopping bags, rolling into liam’s space. he blinks at liam, staring at him curiously.

then he says, “you look terrible.”

liam laughs; he can’t help it. “thanks, lou,” he croaks, clearing his throat. “i am terrible.”

“no,” louis hushes him, tuts his nose like liam is a child, disbelieving. “what have you been up to? what crimes have you committed? where are the bodies?”

he’s not able to smile for long. “you were right. about zayn,” he swallows, “i am a complete idiot.”

“i’ll give you idiot,” louis says agreeably, and then shakes his head, “it was all banter, li. i was just being cruel for sport. i didn’t mean it. you know better than to take my word for money.”

“i don’t know better,” liam argues, “i fucked a married man. over the course of several weeks. that’s not...knowing better,” he finishes lamely. “fuck.”  
“you know what will make you feel better?” louis smiles, “a nap and then a whole lot of tequila. which i will procure after our nap.”

“i don’t know if that will fix everything, lou,” liam laughs, but louis shrugs, pulling a blanket over his shoulder and pressing his cheek into the pillow. he looks older now, something tired in his expression that sleep can’t touch.

“no,” louis agrees, “but it’s what i have.”

the fire, the burn, the scars that come with being brothers with louis, the dangers of falling within his closest circle; the blatant disregard for rules and feelings, the way louis mouth is always bright red, like he’s been on the attack; the split second before he says utters something cruel, tongue like whiplash; these are all things used to mask the louis that is soft, and patient, and doesn’t pretend to have any cure-alls. the boy with vices, always willingly to be your vice. liam closes his eyes. louis still smells like familiarity, like their cramped room at st. peter’s, like home.

-

zayn calls him one night while liam is skyping sophia, but he doesn’t answer it. there’s a voicemail waiting to be listened to, but liam knows better, still trying to nurse his wounds. he tries to melt back into the infectious giddiness that sophia possesses, the simple way she talks about her refreshingly mundane life, her days spent with her friends, but it’s hard to leave his phone alone after that.

-

he’s driving through westminster, stuck in traffic after a meeting with some of his father’s associates when another number calls him, unknown to him. liam picks it up, not actually knowing why he does so because he usually never bothers. he’s been distracted lately, half filling out his paperwork and forgetting to return calls to clients and investors.

“hello?” he asks, waiting for an answer. he has half a mind to hang up, but.

“hi - liam?” a light, feminine voice comes through, and liam racks his brain until his gut lurches because he recognises that voice now and - , “it’s malia. sorry to call you like this - it’s just, i wanted to ask you something.”

“malia, hey,” liam breathes, fixing his stare on the back of his driver’s head as they pass through victoria. “sorry, you took me by surprise - how are you - ?”

“fine, thanks,” he can practically see the exact shape of her smile through the phone, “look, i won’t keep you. i was just wondering if you wouldn’t mind having a dinner tomorrow - i know it’s short notice, but it’ll just be you boys, and you know, intimate. zayn is going on business next week, and i thought it’d be nice before everyone disperses again.”

“yeah,” liam finds himself saying, “yeah, of course. i’d love to. tell me the time, i’ll be there.”

-

the building their flat is located in is nothing short what of liam expects; minimal and artistic, cutting edge and sleek, the same way zayn likes just about everything. liam can recognise as he rides up in the private elevator, that its a beautiful piece of architecture. he feels like a child, nervous and inadequate holding a large bouquet of lilies, stiff in his dinner jacket.

malia greets him with a polite hug, gasping at the flowers as she takes them from him, placing them in a vase on the long side table that runs along their entry hall like she was ready for them. zayn hasn’t changed in that respect, at least.

“come on,” malia beckons him deeper into the flat, and liam listens for the laughter and talk of other’s; louis effort to speak over anyone else, zayn’s snide snicker, the way niall laughs like he’s trying to fill up the entire universe with it. but he doesn’t hear a thing.

he eyes the table, only set for two, and turns to malia to find her already watching him. she gestures to his chair, and he sits, not sure what to expect or what she’s playing at. “where’s zayn?” he asks.

she places a magnificent platter of baked cod in the between them, tender white and garnished with rosemary and kale. malia pours herself and liam two hearty, nearly inappropriate glasses of richly coloured red wine. it nearly splashes out of the cup onto the white tablecloth.

“he left a few days ago for new york. will return - well. he’ll return when he feels like it,” she says this without much infliction in her tone, making it very difficult to see where this is going to lead. she cuts him a piece of fish, and serves him, her long dark nails glimmering in the low light over the dining table. a spoonful of brown rice and a tossed salad, all perfectly arranged on his plate. liam stares at it, dumbfounded.

malia smiles when she sits, “i’m sorry, i don’t know what english boys like to eat, so i looked online. i hope it’s alright.”

“it looks - wonderful,” liam’s manners are borne again like a defense mechanism. “but i don’t understand, exactly.”

“i thought it would be important for us to get to know each other,” she shrugs her dainty shoulders, “but i thought you’d be skittish, seeing as you’ve been sleeping with my husband.”

she says husband like wielding a whip, and liam nearly flinches from it’s impact, but when he looks at her again, gauging her reaction, she is staring back at him plainly, one eyebrow slightly raised. “shit,” he says quietly, at a loss for anything else.

“liam,” she takes a bite of her fish, smiling around her fork, “i am not so ignorant to zayn’s disappearing act, and what he likes to do with his time. nor am i so ignorant to the fact that he’s somehow knocked up one of his interns.”

“did he tell you that?” liam asks, his breath caught in his throat. he curses zayn in his head, his hands starting to sweat.

malia shakes her head as she sips her wine, “no, the girl did. she came to me shaking like a little lamb. and you know what i did?”

liam shakes his head no, barely able to keep his thoughts focused. the hurt and betrayal that were lurking around his heart come to full fruition now, and he can feel his pulse in his neck, erratic. he swallows, “no.”

“i gave her a choice, like i am giving you a choice now,” malia says firmly. she waves her hand at liam’s untouched plate, urging him to eat. unable to resist her, he does, shoveling food into his mouth even though he can barely taste it. “i am going to ask you a question.”

“look, malia, i’m so sorry for what - “ he starts, feeling cornered, but malia puts her hand up to silence him, commanding his attention. he clenches his jaw shut until he can hear his teeth grate together.

“i’m not asking for apologies. i’m also not as ignorant to your history with zayn,” she pauses, popping a cherry tomato into her mouth. “at least, i know more than my husband likes to think.”

“okay,” liam nods.

“i’m going to ask you to return to sydney, liam,” she says, her voice suddenly filled with sadness. “it kills me to do so, because i really have taken to you. i can see why the boys missed you so much while you were gone.”

she takes another sip of red, then tops off her glass. her hair, liam realises, is not covered today in one of her turbans, but falls down her back and curls around shoulders. it is a different kind of beautiful from the regal sophistication liam so often sees of her. she looks nearly human.

“i’m asking you this because i am trying to protect my family, do you understand? i am trying to do what is right here,” she says quietly, her mouth leaning into her hand, “if zayn decides he wants to visit you in sydney, then all i ask for is your discretion.”

“malia - “ liam starts, but she shakes her head, and he, shameful, again falls silent.

“listen,” she smiles ruefully at him then, a peek of her white teeth, “i know. i know you think that we were married too young, and it was a union based on business - which both may be true. but i love my husband. and zayn thinks, deep in his heart, that he has broken his promise to you by keeping his own to me. he does not have to say it, liam, because i can tell.”

he looks up at her then, her pretty face, the way the light hits her skin perfectly, the indescribable look in her eye; liam has a feeling these are things she has never told anybody, and why would she, he thinks. he’s never been able to mutter a honest word to a goddamn soul. and yet, here she is. cleaning up after her husband without blinking. her dinner was delicious, and yet he feels he might be sick.

“okay,” liam says, and then he nods. “i know my apologies don’t mean anything to you. they probably shouldn’t. and i know i don’t - have any right. but i am. it was wrong. i’m sorry.”

“we all do wrongful things,” she comforts. liam watches as her face changes then, her smile falling back into place as she clears his plate for him. “thank you so much for coming.”

liam stands up. the dinner hardly lasted a half hour, and yet that is all the time she needed for her to say what needed to be said; he’ll give her that. cruel, beautiful and efficient, wielding her brain like a god on a warpath. he sees that power in her, that thirst for recognition: this is a girl who was dealt a bad hand and yet plays with what she has.

as she leads him out, malia bids him goodbye, “i hope you have a lovely flight, liam.”

on the drive home, he can’t stop staring at his hands, though all he can see is the messes he’s made, embarrassment and hurt rolling around in his head until he aches. he watches the time go on his phone, the skype message from sophia that he should return but knows he won’t be able to tonight. his bones are weary, ashamed, and wasted. the city is a bright, moving blur outside, and it mocks him and his quiet grief.

his fingers hover over zayn’s missed call from the week previous; his first love. his green light. he shakes with the realisation of it all: you knew how it was going to end.

he said it himself. liam hadn’t known the gravity of the words, the weight of them, but zayn had. zayn had always known what was at stake, and liam was foolish and clumsy with it; clumsy with the memories and the stolen, precious moments of something that was always over before it ever even started.

liam chokes on his muted panic, rolling down the window to inhale the heady scent of the city. he looks at his clock again, then hovers over the options on his phone.

 _i know how this will end. i know how it will all end_. liam takes a deep breath, and then he deletes the voicemail.

-

may 2016 / june 2016

“please tell me you’re not asleep,” a teasing voice brings louis back to consciousness. he plays dead for a moment, waiting for the moment that harry will sigh disparagingly before he smiles, opens one eye.

harry’s face is cross and pouty when he comes into view. he’s leaning over louis, fingers poised to poke and prod. “i knew you were awake,” harry accuses, his voice slow like hot molasses to match the warmth of the day. “you’re such a bore.”

“ _casse-toi_ ,” louis tries, and harry squints at louis’ very obvious maim of harry’s mother tongue. “sorry, that was piss poor, wasn’t it?”

harry nods, floppy curls springing haphazardly around his face. “absolutely dreadful, i think,” he smiles then, laying back down on the blanket. hyde park is mostly packed with random londoners who are all trying to achieve a bit of tan, but they are somewhat secluded on the green in their own spot. the parasol acts as a shroud, eclipsing them in shade, but louis’ feet are hot where they’ve been exposed to the sun.

“not hungry anymore?” louis asks, rolling onto his side to look at harry. his white t shirt has ridden up his stomach, and louis pets the edge of one harry’s hip bones, soft enough to know it will tickle; he gets a swat for his trouble. “i cut up all this cheese.”

“put it away and we’ll save it for later,” harry shrugs, squinting over at louis even though there isn’t any sunshine in his face. “i ate all the blueberries while you were have a kip, and then i went and bought an ice lolly.”

“sinful,” louis snarks, pinching harry again, just below his scar. “you didn’t get me one, you arse.”

“you were asleep!” harry complains loudly. “it would have melted.”

louis falls quiet then, bored with their banter. he surveys the quilt they’re laying out, the way the threads are starting to pull at the ends and making it have a bohemian, frayed quality to it, stitched together sloppily by some spinster aunt, the fabric comprised of different patterns of stars. his hand rubs up to the length of harry’s legs, trailing along of his knobby knees.

he twitches then, lifting his head up to glare at louis, “what’re you doing?”

“just touching you, christ,” louis rolls his eyes, putting his hands up defensively, “such a brat.”

harry shakes his head. “no, you’re thinking something. what’re you thinking about?”

he waits for louis to answer like he’s got all the bloody time in the world, his eyelashes brushing along the tops of his cheeks as he blinks languorously. louis marvels how stupidly beautiful harry is, even with his skin desecrated with horrible, cliche tattoos.

“only counting how many drinks i will need before i can tolerate you for the rest of the afternoon,” louis snarks, but there is no bite behind his words, his tone as soft and as gentle as saying, goodnight, see you in the morning. louis props himself up on his elbow, peering down at harry. “i would be far more sociable if i had not been woken.”

“it’s our picnic, lou,” harry just smiles. he leans into kiss louis, hidden from everyone else. he does indeed taste like fruit and saliva, his mouth cold from the ice cubes he’s been chewing on all day.

the sun sets, but louis doesn’t notice until harry sits up to take his insulin and louis realises the park is thinning of its crowds. he starts to throw random shit into the basket until harry hits him with his diabetes purse - as louis likes to refer to it - and starts organising the basket with all his containers.

“what do you want to eat?” louis asks when they’re making their way back down towards kensington high street to his flat. harry shrugs, his sunglasses pushing his wild hair back from his face, setting the stage from his cheekbones. this boy, louis thinks fondly, this fucking boy.

harry shrugs with disinterest as they pass an argentinian steak house  and a prezzo, so louis gives up. “i’m not hungry right now,” harry says finally, adjusting the wicker basket in his grip. “let’s have an early night in. a bath sounds nice.”

louis rolls his eyes, “you’re turning me into some kind of grossly romantic geriatric. what, you want some candles, too? jesus. next thing, i’m going to be writing all my feelings down in a diary.”

harry laughs as the turn the corner. “you’re babbling, lou. and i don’t think we have any candles.”

“christ, you’re right. i need a drink, right away,” louis grumbles, digging his keys out of his rolled chinos and shuffling them both inside. harry takes the food to the kitchen and starts putting it away, his long willow tree legs squatting down in front of louis’ fridge.

louis is preparing himself a highball when he hears the tub start. it’s still light outside, but he gives up hoping for a night out. he starting to see that as the days start to stubbornly grow longer, harry seems to want to turn in earlier and earlier. he wishes he didn’t think it, didn’t notice. he likes being oblivious. he wants to be oblivious to fucking everything.

harry is already sitting in the tub, filled nearly to the brim with water and some kind of lavender shit he likes. louis sets his glass on the ledge and watches the condensation gather from the light steam of the room.

“not going to get in?” harry asks, bending his knees and lying down in order to dunk his head in. he looks like a wet puppy when he re emerges.

louis shakes his head no. “i’ll sit with you, though. got bloody nothing else to do since liam has left.”

he cannot keep the bitterness out of his voice, and harry frowns at that. liam was supposed to stay until mid june because that is what he promised and louis had been comforted by that date, thought that they had all this time to see each other before he fucked off again to australia. honestly, that boy could be so selfish.

“sorry i’m such a bore,” harry does sound truly sorry, and it does something funny to louis’ gut. he doesn’t often experience the guilt of other people, the way it sits on his chest in a suffocating, uncomfortable way.

louis waves his hand dismissively.

“call el, maybe she’ll want to go out. or zayn, i think he’s back from new york by now - “ harry suggests, though he doesn’t look too considerably happy about either option.

“no,” louis overrides, shaking his head. “i don’t actually want to go out, i’ve decided.”

“what?” harry giggles, washing his hair and flicking suds in louis’ direction. “you’d rather bore yourself to death here with me?”

he says it in jovial tone, something harry has always done to deflect his clinging nature, censored himself in front of louis; putting louis first. but louis is sick of being the centre of the universe for harry, doesn't want all that fucking pressure to be someone’s sun. louis can tell that harry wants him to stay. so he’s going to stay. it’s not a big fucking deal.

“yeah, hazza,” louis answers lightly, draining the rest of his drink and handing harry the lime to suck through his teeth, “i’d rather watch you prune up until you’re nothing but a curly haired raisin. you’re nearly resembling a grape at this point, so not far now.”

harry laughs, making motions to splash louis, to which louis glares in response. he leans over the cold porcelain lip of the tub, tugging softly on one of harry’s sopping curls until he leans over. his mouth feels like a wet stain on louis’ lips, and louis can’t help but lick them over, and over, chasing a phantom taste.  
  
-

st. tropez was a blur in louis’ memory except for specific moments that stood out, so clear in his mind that he swears they must be tangible. his brain has always worked differently since he’s left rehab, though he’d never admit it. he’s slower, maybe, at taking things in. he understands why they are important more.

he tries to.

it was a sea of blue and red brick, of tanned women and men, of white yachts and harry, harry, harry. he was in his element there, speaking to locals and bringing louis into every sweet shop they could find; lounging on long beach chairs for hours, harry soaked in sun blocker and a floppy hat; the waves never stopped returning to shore, a constant song in louis’ ears. he swears he can still feel the sand in his toes.

he remembers the way harry had looked one morning, wrapped in a sheet and leaning out their hotel balcony window, his shoulders a drastic slope, his hair flat and matted from the sleep. louis had sat there, exhausted, unable to focus on anything else by the tan line of harry’s back, the way the sheet sat just above his bum.

he remembers the way harry had slept, like the dead, like there was no other world but the one inside his brain. how tired he always got, how many times he needed to take this medication or that, the way his eyes would flutter and words would start to slur as he attempted to keep up with louis; the clumsy way he tugged on louis to get his attention, to tell him they had to rest for a few minutes.

and louis remembers especially the way he felt; how everything was just as it was when he was seventeen, free and bright. except this time he wasn’t so cruel or fucking hateful, angry at the world for being put under a telescope at such a young age, angry at his father for fucking off and dying; his attention span only wasted on any drug placed in his palm.

it felt like the whole world was in front of them, but at the same time nothing quite existed except harry and louis - and louis and harry - and louis let himself be consumed in this very nature, in this long limbed gazelle of a boy, in his hooded eyes and loose, beautiful smile. it wasn’t like getting lost.

it felt like being found.

louis knows harry’s body is failing him, and his health is in the shitter, and he’s trying to be patient and pretend as if it doesn’t bother him but he’s restless with his frustration; his anger. louis understands that. louis understands what its like to be so fucking overwhelmed by your own temper that it feels like you may burst from it all.

he tries to convey this, but it’s hard with harry. it’s always been hard with harry because it’s almost too easy, and louis gets caught up in it all. there is a lot between them. books full of history. louis never said he was good with love. he fumbles with it. it’s too fragile for him; he’ll break it.

there’s something in the way harry touches him when he thinks louis is still asleep; reverent and gentle, like something he’s never been able to have before. louis wants to tell him, press harder and make me feel it; but he doesn’t. he lets harry cuddle into him how he wants, a nose against his shoulder, feet tangled together. it’s as if harry is memorising the way they feel together; as if he’s saving it to savour later. he touches louis as if they don’t have all the time in the world for this, morning after morning.

-

they don’t have all the time in the world. this is made abundantly clear towards the end of may when niall calls louis from his work phone.

“lou, mate,” his voice comes through. louis pauses from his email to a client, shuffling his phone to his ear properly. niall nearly always greets him the same way no matter if they’ve had a row or been around for a pint and a spliff; like he wants nothing more than to talk to louis, to make sure he’s okay. there’s something almost annoyingly bright about niall, the way he bloody cares. that boy never did learn.

“ni,” louis says slowly, hoping he’ll get to the point quickly. “to what do i owe this pleasure?”

niall sighs through the phone like he’s about to ask louis to do something they both know will make louis uncomfortable. he has this tired, strict way about him when he’s at the office that louis absolutely distrusts. “look,” he starts, “i wouldn’t ask you, but harry’s nurse called him. he needs someone to pick him up from hampstead heath.”

louis doesn’t answer right away, and when he exhales he realises he’s been holding his breath. niall continues, “i was about to leave but i was pulled into a meeting and - she says it’s best if it’s someone he knows.”

“yeah,” louis nods, even though no one can see him in his flat. he looks out the window, wisteria nearly blocking the view of the road, in full bloom. “i’ll go now. i’m not - i’m not good, with hospitals, i - “

“just pick him up, lou,” niall restates firmly, and louis feels his back straighten, before his eyes scramble for his keys. “take him to mine. he’s fine. he just.”

“right,” louis says, because niall knows the way he says he’s fine doesn’t fool anyone. “i’ve got to go.”

the traffic is not nearly as bad as it could be, but louis speeds and weaves through it anyway. he feels strange and slightly sweaty, even though it’s not very warm today. the front of hampstead heath is same as he remembers, and he pulls into the drop lane, putting his lights on and walking into the reception.

“i’ve come to fetch a styles,” he says in a rush, and then shakes his head, the woman behind the computer looking at him quizzically. “harry styles. i’m the ride.”

she points him to another hall that leads into another ward that is labeled ‘dialysis’ and louis pushes through, his keys jangling in his hand obnoxiously. the smell of the antiseptic, the uneasy feeling low in his stomach, the tap-tap of the tiles make him on edge.

the room harry is supposed to be in is empty save for a large whirring machine and a recliner; there’s another one set up on the other side but it’s also empty. his things are there; a purple cardigan, his stupid inky black chelsea boots, his backpack that louis knows holds his little insulin purse.

he turns around to find a nurse about ready to collide into him; she startles. “oh, are you harry’s family?” she asks him.

louis wants to tell her to fuck off, angry for no reason he can describe. he wants to tell her harry’s got shit for family. but doesn’t. “i’m his ride,” he states evenly. “where is he?”

she doesn’t have a chance to answer. harry emerges from a door louis hadn’t payed attention to before hand, wiping his mouth. he looks peaked and drawn, his pale skin stretched over his prominent skeleton frame, his stomach bloated slightly like he’s with child.

“oh,” he says, and his sounds dreadful, his voice cracking and taciturn, “i thought niall would be here.”

“you’re very lucky i’m not offended by that,” louis snaps, “i’ve come to fetch you. apparently i’m your bloody nanny now.”

the young nurse looks between them, confused, but harry just smiles at her, tiptoeing to his chair and sinking down into it. louis picks up the sweater off the floor, shoves it at him. harry can’t even figure out the armholes.

“christ, haz,” louis groans, “you’re absolutely helpless.”

“he’s just had an episode of drastically low blood sugar,” the nurse excuses for harry, her disapproving frown pointed directly at louis. “i’m not sure how long you’ve been around to witness harry’s treatment, but it causes a large decrease in energy, so - “

“it’s alright, noor,” harry waves his hand, “it’s how he is. this is downright cuddly, i promise.”

louis is not amused, and neither is nurse noor, it seems. she crosses her arms decidedly, watching louis as he hands harry his boots. he shoulders the backpack himself, making way for the door.

“hold on,” harry demands, pushing himself up. “give me your arm.”

louis does, and harry latches on to it, his weight sagging. he looks like he could fall asleep at any moment, and it makes louis nervous, looking over every few seconds to make sure he’s not about to drop to the ground and split his pretty head open.

it parallels to all the times louis used to drag harry’s drunk, sorry arse away from barn parties during his last year at st. peter’s, harry always leaning into him like dead weight. they had been so young, then, louis thinks. and now here they are.

“rough day?” louis asks when harry has all but collapsed in the front seat of louis’ jag, head leaning against the window frame. a woman behind them is laying on her horn, waiting for louis to move, and louis happily gives her two fingers in response.

“just really tired,” harry mumbles, eyes closed, “can i go to your’s? i want to watch a movie on your telly.”

“you’ve got a telly at niall’s,” louis says, “besides, you’re nearly comatose. you’ll be asleep as soon as you hit a pillow.”

“lou,” harry whines, soft and high in his throat, “please. i want to.”

louis relents with a heavy sigh, but he can’t help but reach over to pat the meat of harry’s annoyingly long leg. louis’ grown soft in his old age: he even finds himself letting harry domineer the radio the ride home.

-

harry does in fact fall asleep almost as soon as louis sits him on the bed. it’s so dramatic and unnecessary that louis has to then drag harry’s shoes and trousers off, pushing his legs into the bed and pulling a quilt over him; he realises it’s the same one from their day at the picnic. only harry would insist on adopting that embarrassing excuse for a blanket.

louis resumes, without much enthusiasm, to his emails where he left off, scrolling through and not wanting to really reply to any of them. there’s a few texts from his sister as she lists off all the things she’s accomplished during her first finishing week at st. mary’s before she’s let loose for the summer. louis thinks then to his first year of school, thankful no one is there to see him smile like a fucking knob.

he considers of going out tonight, knowing el is hosting a party down nearly chelsea that she invited him to ages ago, but he feels odd about leaving harry here after such a tiresome debacle earlier.

he absolutely doesn’t watch him sleep.

-

niall comes over late in the evening, sore under the eyes. he’s holding a large freezer bag full of different sized medications, staring louis down as if to frighten him with it.

he tosses it on the kitchen counter as louis moves to make them both a drink. niall downs it like he’s takes a shot, wiping the back of his mouth with his bespoke suit sleeve. nothing like a little vodka on your five thousand pound jacket, louis thinks to himself wryly.

“he’ll need to take them in the mornin’,” niall finally says, pointing at the meds. “all of them. with some water and some fruit. natural sugar.”

“jesus, are you his mum, now?” louis’ ridicules, but there is no heat behind his words. niall’s open adoration of harry has always made him strangely jealous.

niall chooses to ignore this. “s’not a joke, lou,” he says like louis is a child, and louis finds himself hating the way niall sounds; like he’s given up somehow. like he’s fucking exhausted. he takes back about what he thought earlier: he’ll do anything for a little bit of sunshine in niall’s step.

“do you see me joking?” louis asks plainly, “he asked to come here. he wanted to. i told him i would take him to bermondsey, but harry said no.”

“course he wants to come here,” niall shakes his head, “don’t be stupid with it. don’t be stupid with harry.”

“i’m not,” louis argues, “i’m not. look at me. i’m not fucking around. i picked him up, didn’t i?”

niall laughs but it’s mirthless and dry, falling uncomfortably on louis’ skin. “you don’t get stars anymore for being a decent human being, lou. its more than that. you know it is.”

“i know,” he says curtly, “his nurse told he has some kind of sugar attack - “

“yeah, he’s hypoglycemic,” niall nods, still defiant in his body language, “the dialysis takes out his blood and cleans it for him, which means he has very low blood pressure and blood sugar. there’s a pill for that in there, orange juice helps. he’s also just been given an upped dosage of immunosuppressants, which means he’s frequently at risk for infections and osteoporosis. those drugs are in there too. and can’t forget the fact that his hip and leg have pinched nerves, so there’s some percocet for him when he needs it. and the list goes on. do you understand what i’m saying?”

louis nods, feeling something twist inside of him. “i do. i’m trying.”

“i’m going to be honest with you, lou,” niall raises his eyebrows, “if you decide you’re going to take this on, it’s not like he’ll just wake up and recover one day. the picture isn’t good right now. his replacement kidney was rejected. and still he’s been moved down the list.”

there’s something significant in the way niall says this. louis wants to ask, but he knows now isn’t the right time when niall is so challenging.

louis will never stop trying to atone for the first time harry was hospitalised; it’s a sure pact between them, knowing niall will always hold louis to the highest standard, and louis knows he can count on niall to always hold his abandonment against him. it’s comforting, and constant. niall is disappointed where disappointment is due, and louis will always count on him for it.

“there’s no going back from this,” louis reiterates, finds himself nodding.

“if you leave him when he needs you, it could kill him,” niall says harshly, his face screwed up and tense. “and if it doesn’t, i promise i will kill you. c’mere.”

louis does, folding into niall’s embrace, feeling drunk off one drink and niall’s honesty, the way it swims around his head and fills up his ears. they drink straight from the bottle this time, cringing at the taste.

niall stays late into the night, curled up on louis’ couch, both of them watching mindless telly and supplying errant strands of conversation. louis suddenly misses liam then, wishes he was here as his buffer. his head is spinning with truth, and it hurts. it fucking hurts.

he stares at the hall leading to his bedroom where harry is sound asleep. he hopes niall keeps his promise.

-

“your belly was so round yesterday,” louis teases, running a hand gently down the flat plains of harry’s abdomen, “and now you’re thinner than a tree branch.”

“stop, that tickles,” harry giggles, pushing louis’ hands away. his grip is weak, but louis isn’t going to wonder if it’s purposely so. he’s already decided to pick his battles. “i’m always bloated after my appointments. but it goes away.”

harry rolls over, but his nap has already been an hour and louis had run errands all day and he wants to do something fun. he wants to reckless with harry, but bites back on the urge, feels his restraint as he pulls at harry’s shoulder.

“no, no more sleeping,” louis orders, “let’s go out.”

harry looks on the verge some of kind of protest, but then he stops, sighing. louis watches as the wheels in his brain turns, processing something. then he looks up at louis, something unreadable in his eyes. “okay,” he nods, “but i want to choose.”

they end up taking his father’s vintage corvette out of the family garage and driving out of the city into guilford. harry had asked to see some trees, and louis had looked him, dumbfounded. he was ready to give him a flight to paris, to pull damage at harrod’s on his gold card, to rope in the moon and somehow find a way to give this kid the whole damn universe.

but the boy wants a day in the fucking trees. so they start to drive, harry insisting on leaving the lid down so he can feel the breeze, nevertheless wrapping himself that horrid star quilt that he slept with a few nights before. louis slides on his raybans and pictures his father in the same seat fifteen, twenty years before, pulling off the motorways and taking the scenic route, the smog of the city only a distant memory, the sun bathing them both in light.

harry’s hair is a laughable mess with the wind, but he doesn’t seem to mind when his curls hit him in the face. he has that stuttering way about him, which tells louis he must have taken a dose of his meds before they left.

he wishes he could hold onto harry hands and make them still, tell him to stop shaking. instead he grips the steering wheel, pressing on the gas and making the engine roar.

“doesn’t it taste good out here?” harry says at one point, and he sticks his tongue out against the air to prove his point. louis laughs at him.

“dunno what you’re on about, haz,” he says, but it’s playful.

harry shrugs with little interest, “sorry. must have made more sense in my head, suppose.”

they eat at a pub with outside seating, though louis insists quite ferociously that harry absolutely must leave the blanket inside the car, preferably out of sight. he cannot go around having this silly, putty limbed boy taint his image that way.

harry orders ice cubes in a glass and water in another, and part of louis thinks no one could be born so ridiculously pretentious. they share a fruit salad, chips and battered haddock, harry pulling fish bones off his tongue and flicking them at louis.

“you’re hair is too long,” louis remarks when harry attempts to show him he can pull it into a little bun now.

harry shakes it out again, fussy. “i like it,” he shrugs. he cracks an ice cube between his teeth then. “it looks good.”

“i didn’t say it didn’t look good, narcissus,” louis defends himself, “i said it was too long. which it is.”

“how can something be appealing but still too much?” harry critiques, his fingers stained pink from his watermelon. he sucks on them, searching for sugar, and louis swallows, watching him carefully. the sun is shining behind harry’s head, bringing out the gold in his green eyes, the shadow of cheeks. louis feels as if he’s been here before at this very moment, lived it before. the deja vu makes him uneasy.

“i don’t know,” he admits truthfully. “but it happens. i know it happens.”

harry is fatigued and subdued by the time they reach the city; his cheeks are flushed from the evening breeze and his hair is a tousled mess. he kisses louis when they’ve arrived back at louis’ flat and he’s unlocked the front door, bending down to leave a small wet mark on his neck.

“this better not bruise,” louis complains, fingers pressing against it like he’s checking for a pulse. harry turns around and sticks his tongue out in jest, always a menace.

harry laughs as he heads to the back bedroom, “in that case, lou,” he croaks, and louis can pinpoint the exact moment he throws himself onto the bed, “i hope it does.”

-

louis is awake in the middle of the night, and he doesn’t know why. he squints, a sound pestering him as he reaches for the lamp. he feels disoriented when he sits up. he looks down to harry, who is fast asleep beside him, cheek pressed up against his arm, blankets tucked around his shoulders.

he didn’t make the bloody sound up. it’s faint, though, like he could almost pretend not to hear it if he really tried, or was drunk enough.

he follows whatever it is into the front room, squinting at the blue light of his laptop. it’s the culprit making noise, and when louis pulls it onto his lap he realises it’s the rare chopin song he has buried in his itunes - _sonata no.2 in b-flat minor_ , something harry used to practice relentlessly when they were in school. it’s playing on loop.

spooked, he closes his macbook and shuffles quietly back to bed, making sure he doesn’t make a sound. harry hardly moves, even in his sleep.

-

a fever breaks.

nothing extraordinary happened all day that louis can think of. he racks his fucking brain, wishing he could tear his hair out just so he can think straight for once in his goddamn life, but there isn’t a single thing that comes to mind.

he was doing everything right. he was trying. he hasn’t made one misstep.

niall is the one who drives, and louis sits in the cramped backseat of his own car as harry sits in the front. he’s so still louis could mistake him for asleep, if it weren’t for the fluttering of his eyelashes every so often.

“turn on the aircon,” harry asks after a moment, his voice heaving and breathy, and niall does, fumbling with the knobs until they do what he wants. he swerves around a lorry, getting a horn for his efforts. louis wishes he would drive faster.

“i don’t feel well,” harry says, and it’s almost as if he’s placating them. louis wants to believe that harry is fine, that he has all the answers, if it weren’t for the panicked look in his eye, the way niall’s jaw is set and tense. “but that’s okay. we’ll be there soon.”

he turns back to look at louis then, his face bright pink as if he’s just run a few miles. harry tries smiling at louis, reassuring them, and louis is so fucked with nerves, with anger at harry’s pitiful excuse for a body, at not keeping his promise to niall.

he wants to smile back, but know he can’t. instead he reaches out, pressing back harry’s hair from his forehead, blowing air onto his cheeks. harry’s eyes fall closed again. louis wants to hit the back of niall’s chair, urge him to fucking drive faster. he needs a cigarette. his hands are shaking for a fucking cigarette.

-

they decide to keep him overnight. niall has this drawn, pinched look on his face when he comes back into the waiting room where louis has been flipping through mum’s daily magazine, glaring at anyone who even considered sitting next to him.

“i’ve just been on the phone with gemma,” niall says, her name heavy on his tongue, “she’s coming to see him tomorrow, i think.”

“excellent,” his words almost taste acidic in his mouth, his tone sour. “i’ll be here when she arrives.”

“look, lou, you can - “

louis throws down the magazine, listening to it thwack against the table. “don’t tell me to go home. remember the last time you did that? i ended up snorting coke out of a hooker’s arse crack.”

niall stares at him. “okay,” he says slowly, “first of all, you have never, to my extensive knowledge, snorting anything out of anyone’s arse,” he holds two fingers up now. “you also look dreadful. so please go home. i can pick you up tomorrow.”

“you told me to be there for him,” louis argues, “i’m here.”

“i know that, lou, christ,” niall rubs his eyes, “who fucking hit you with the chivalry hand. look, i know how you are if you don’t get some rest and some food. i’m leaving too.”

he wants to rebuttal, something along the lines of how terrible niall is at being sarcastic and what the fuck is a chivalry hand, anyway, but they all die on his tongue. they start to leave the visitor’s area towards the way they came when they first arrived.

instead he says, “should we be scared?” in a very small voice, which he hates.

niall is honest when honesty is needed, when it hurts. “i don’t know. maybe. we won’t know until tomorrow.”

-

it’s three days before they actually hear anything, and louis is ready to spit blood. he hasn’t actually seen gemma, though he knows she’s here, lurking about, coming in to visit after hours because she’s family and she’s a bloody twat. even if louis didn’t loathe harry’s flake of a sister before, the look niall gets on his face when she’s mentioned is like watching an accident happen without the ability to turn away, a wildfire up close; louis feels sick to his fucking stomach.

mostly, harry sleeps. they pump him full of fluids, dose him his usual medications, and the doctors rarely make a visit. the nurses, even noor, have learned to keep well away from louis whenever he’s there.

“you need to get out of here, lou,” zayn had told him tersely when he and malia dropped by, both holding large bouquets of purple and yellow daisies, dressed in identical black. zayn grasps him up by the underarm then, pulling louis in the small hospital courtyard for a smoke.

“okay, now tell me,” zayn demands, flicking his fag. his eyes are intense and smoldering, drilling into louis. “niall says it doesn’t look good.”

“it doesn’t, i guess,” louis shrugs. he’s exhausted. he wishes he had a drink, or something stronger, and the urge to find something to slow his head scares him.

“and you’re going to see this through?” zayn squints, he shakes roughly at louis’ shoulder like he’s trying to revive him. louis glares at him but zayn stands firm, eyebrows raised.

“he could get better,” louis says instead, his tone argumentative and tired. he finds he doesn’t give a shit. “firm slap on his bum, and we’ll all walk out of here tomorrow.”

“sure,” zayn considers this. he puts two cigarettes in his mouth, something he used to do as a kid when he wanted to show off, act cool. he passes one to louis then. “he could. or he could not. with the shit state his health already is in, could be fatal.”

“don’t,” louis snaps, “don’t fucking talk like that. you hear yourself? this is harry. he’s your fucking friend.”

zayn nods slowly, “i know he is. i love that fucking kid. it’s why i have to think about it this way. this shit is too sad otherwise.”

“it’s supposed to be,” louis whispers, “it’s supposed to be awful. it’s not something we can just close ourselves off from.”

zayn takes a seat next to him on the concrete courtyard bench, wrapping an arm around louis’ neck and bringing him close. he smells like cologne and coffee and smoke and louis closes his eyes briefly, exhausted. “listen. listen to me, lou. we’re going to get through this. okay? say okay.”

“okay,” louis repeats, sighing heavily, his inhale shaky. he stands then, brushing off his day old trousers and rolling his eyes. “i need an actual meal and a proper stiff drink. this place is shit.”

zayn smiles, hand coming around to cup the back of louis’ neck like a reminder. it’s comforting, the way zayn touches, the way he chooses to touch. louis wishes he wasn’t such a bloody twat sometimes, wishes he would talk to him like this all the time: from his heart.

-

“his infection is waging a war,” niall says over pathetic midnight breakfast. his skin has a grayish tone to it. he takes a sip of his milky hospital tea and flinches at the taste. “and he’s been given so many immunosuppressants again in preparation for his next surgery. this is a fucking shit storm.”

louis rubs his face. he thinks of harry with his back turned away from louis, petit in his hospital gown and his mechanical bed, feeble with all his wires. louis had stared at the curve of his spine until his vision had gone blurry.

“can’t they just plop another kidney in there?” louis asks uselessly, pushing his uneaten scramble away from him. “shouldn’t be that bloody hard.”

“i asked, mate. gemma said she’s sign all the paperwork. but his doctors say they have to wait until he’s well enough to withstand any infection postoperative,” niall sounds like an old man trapped inside a twenty one year old’s body.

“you’re off your head,” louis hits niall in the face with a plastic spoon, and it bounces off him uselessly. “i’m cutting you out for tonight. go get some rest.”

“no, it’s your turn,” niall urges, but he looks like he may fall asleep on top of the sticky laminate dining table. it won’t take much more convincing on louis’ part to get him to call a cab to take him home.

“i’ll play nice with gemma, if that’s what you're worried about,” louis rolls his eyes, “now go. go before i fucking throwing something at you, twat.”

“love you,” niall mumbles pathetically, dragging his sorry arse out of the canteen. he’s just about to disappear down the hall when he turns around, walking backwards. “and call me, please!”

-

gemma is sitting in louis’ chair when he returns shortly after niall’s crawled into the back of a black cab. it’s at that point in the night that louis usually loves, just after two when the suburban streets are empty and wide, going on for miles without a single sound; as a child he always used to image the world was always night, the way it was in norway during the winter when he visited for a school trip.

louis tenses, glaring at the back of her head. her hair has been cut, he can tell, even though it’s in a messy tangle down her back. she is hunched over harry’s bed, pressing his hand to her mouth as if she is in prayer.

he kicks one of the wheeled tables holding a bunch of rubber gloves and tissues, getting her attention. she startles, turning around to stare him down. louis is not fazed. “you’re still here,” gemma whispers, and louis can tell she’s been crying, “i thought you’d left.”

louis shakes his head, seating opposite her. “i haven’t, obviously.”

gemma scrubs at her eyes, “what are you waiting for, then? here’s your chance. leave before it gets any worse. live up to your name, tomlinson.”

“fuck whatever you know about my name,” he whispers harshly, “i’m not leaving. try and make me. harry wants me here.”

“harry doesn’t know what he wants,” she argues, glaring at him. “you don’t get to tell him what he wants, either.”

he sighs, trying to think of niall and his promise to play nice. he should have never bloody offered that. she’s a grandiloquent mess of a girl. he bites back on the rebuttal already formed in his mind, _i know i have left once but you’re his bloody sister. you should have never even took off the first time._

instead he rubs the growing ache in the middle of his forehead. “look. this hospital is a breeding ground for bacteria. and harry’s immune system is shot. he’ll be in here forever, at this rate.”

gemma gauges his reaction, looking for the catch in what louis trying to stay. he wants to throw his hands in frustration, toss one of those ceramic bedpans he saw stacked by the nurse’s station at her head. instead he clenches his fist, leaning his mouth against it. it’s her move, now.

“what are you suggesting? he try for God to be his cureall instead?” gemma asks snidely.

louis rolls his eyes, “don’t be stupid. i’m telling you he’ll be better with homecare. have a nurse come in, give him all he needs somewhere he can rest more. he’s going to fucking rot in here, gemma, and i - “ louis catches himself, swallowing thickly. he’s so fucking tired he feels as if his eyeballs are going to drop out of his fucking skull.

“why do you suddenly care so much about my brother? what was it you used to call him - “ she tries to recall, “a rent boy? or was it a race horse?” she laughs bitterly, “‘rode hard and put away wet’, right?”

“listen,” louis sits up, “listen to me. this is not about all the terrible things you think i am. this is about your brother. i’m trying to help you, you dumb fucking twat.”

“fuck you, louis,” she whispers, wiping her eyes when fresh tears spill over. “he’s all i have. this is all the family i have left. so don’t you fucking dare.”

“he’s our family, too,” louis mutters darkly, “niall’s. we should have a say in this. my father - before he - he had care at home. and he improved. i swear it, gemma. i’m not fucking lying.”

“if niall thinks - if niall thinks it’s right, then okay. we’ll bring him home, where he can recover there,” she relents finally. louis wants to seethe, a rush of protection overwhelming his weary body for niall, wanting to keep him from this girl with her poisonous fucking mouth. he falls silent, propping his socked feet up on harry’s bed ledge, leaning down into his hand and closing his eyes.

“it wasn’t sudden,” he says abruptly, opening his eyes to look at gemma. she stares at him with distrust and confusion, but at this point that’s the best he’ll ever receive from her. he unclenches his jaw, feeling his shoulders shrug of their own accord. “i’ve always cared.”

“you’ve got the worst way of showing it out everyone i’ve ever met, then,” gemma concludes after a moment of silence. louis shrugs again. he’s not denying it.

-

the smell of summer wafts in through louis’ open window as he stretches like a cat in the sun. he’d fallen asleep on his sofa, his sock half on his foot. there’s a note stuck to his forehead and he rips it off, cursing niall for being a prat.

the sun is a perfect blend of eager and bright, not too warm as it casts into louis’ flat. the beginnings of summer in london always makes louis nostalgic; his mind constantly turning to memories of long grass and endless countryside, of italian gelato found just off green park, of picnics and late nights when the heat presses up against bare skin.

he pisses in the powder room, washing his hands and face after, not bothering to look in the mirror. he knows he looks dreadful and unkempt; it’s been the fourth bloody night he’s exhausted himself on the sofa. he needs a holiday.

louis tiptoes, the glossy hardwood making his feet cold into his bedroom. he finds himself taking a deep breath before pushing the door open. his bedroom is one of the best rooms in the house, louis knows, nearly white with the light outside. he doesn’t pay attention to it’s aesthetics. he’s too focused on the boy on the bed.

harry’s rolled in louis’ duvet like an animal burrowing, his cheeks hot and flushed when louis touches them. he tries to pull at the covers harry’s somehow tangled himself in, loosening their bind. the last thing he needs is for harry’s iv to get dislodged again, and his bulldog of a nurse to snap at him again, teeth bared like she’s trying to protect a pup.

he gives in a second later, crawling beside him and lying on top of the quilts. he tries to be quiet, but he’s never been exactly good with patience. he’s never really tried, either.

“lou,” harry murmurs, and louis winces at how sore his voice sounds, how itchy his throat must be. “what time is it?”

“doesn’t matter,” louis says dismissively, “how’re you feeling?”

harry wiggles out of his blanket burrito, fanning his face and leaning against a stack of pillows. “alright,” he hums tiredly, “has gemma been by?”

“asking about your sister first thing in the morning does nothing to lift my spirits, haz,” louis complains, pulling a springy curl from his head and watching it bounce back, much to harry’s consternation. whenever gemma visits now, she makes a point of speaking to harry only in french, which irritates louis to a dangerous degree. “but no. said she’ll be by in the evening. has a surprise for you.”

“lovely,” harry says disinterestedly. “i need to pee.”

louis sighs, “knock yourself out, kid,” waving to the bathroom door. “may as well shower, you smell like a sweaty freak.”

“freaks don’t have a smell,” harry bites back, grinning slightly. nevertheless he kicks off his sleeping pants, mindful of his iv as he pulls his bag hook with him to the loo. he looks pale and thin in the light when he passes the window, like some kind of unearthly creature. louis regards him without words. there is a lot he wishes he could say.

“i beg to differ,” louis calls out, receiving a bird from harry. his next response is a closed bathroom door.

-

a lot of people call to check up on louis now, doctors, nurses, physicians, friends, niall. a lot of niall, actually, but he usually seems to answer his own questions and when louis can’t provide any answers he just ends up coming over to check, so louis doesn’t even know why he actually bothers calling. it’s a mystery to him. niall won’t stop worrying about it until he can see for himself, something that aggravates louis to no end.

neither niall nor gemma still fully belief he’s competent. well, fuck them. he wants to ask them, _name one time i’ve fucked up_ \- but knows the day would run out of time before they could finish.

harry comes back into the bedroom a half hour later, clean haired with a new needle inserted, fresh tape over his hand. his nurse, rosheen had taught him how to do it, and louis fucked it up too many times, so harry had taken it on. he’s quite the fast learner.

“what do you want to watch today? i think _brideshead revisited_ is on netflix,” louis murmurs, scrolling through the pages on his computer for a movie harry might like. louis’ never watched so many fucking french films or period pieces. he feels like his head may fall off in protest of all the stiff queen’s english dialogue, the parisian heroines and their grandiose language.

“i don’t want to watch anything right now,” harry shakes his head.

“tell me, princess, what you want?” louis turns to look at him. he snaps his fingers lazily, “your wish, my command.”

“it’s a nice day,” harry looks out the window, “i want to go on a drive - lets go to surrey and walk around. i love the smell.”

louis groans. he hates surrey, and he cannot be fucked to get dressed. but harry is looking at him with oval green eyes, eyelashes fluttering gently. he smiles then, dimple and all, nudging louis with his free hand, poking him in his side. louis sighs, relenting. he never can resist that stupid fucking dimple. harry is a shameless menace.

“alright, alright,” louis makes a big deal of it, rolling his eyes and sighing. “i thought you were supposed to be some invalid. now you want to go for a hike? christ.”

“not a hike. i just want to. you’re such a drama queen,” harry rolls his eyes. “and stop calling me that or i’ll see to rosheen about you. she wants your blood.”

louis glares at him. “don’t make threats you won’t keep. and don’t think i wouldn’t exact revenge. better smell your apple juice from now on.”

harry is still giggling when they get down to the car and louis flicks his cheek then, annoyed at his incessant noise. harry quiets by the time he’s been settled in his seat, hands in his lap like he’s a child waiting to be taken to the circus. there’s a bruise from where the iv has been earlier on the back of his hand, the skin tender there. louis wants to cover it with his own, protect it.

they set off. louis takes north richmond road through hammersmith bridge going west because it’s a straight shot and he’ll avoid the most traffic. harry fiddles with the radio before settling on a jazz station that seems to center mostly around louis armstrong, not that louis is complaining. he finds himself humming like a twat after a while, and clears his throat.

“why don’t you play your sax anymore?” harry asks then.

“do you play your piano since you’ve graduated?” louis asks. loved playing that instrument, loved the music it produced, but since then practice has become tedious and he has better things to do, like make money and call his clients and pour himself a drink. he doesn’t have time to donate an hour to his music, and he hasn’t for a couple years.

harry nods solemnly, “yes. everyday, if i could. haven’t for a few months, but…” he shrugs to himself, considerably, “it’s like a part of me.”

“well, aren’t we dedicated,” louis teases, “maybe i should start up again. you’re just full of ideas today, styles.”

-

louis knows which green harry wants specifically, which means driving to petersham. from the trail they choose along the thames, just outside the edges of richmond, louis can just see the steeple of st. peter’s chapel, but he doesn’t dare suggest they go see the campus. school will be soon be let out, but still. louis doesn’t think he can face it.

harry wears sunglasses and a ridiculous dark headscarf, his lithe frame drowning in an oversized lavender jumper, but he looks happy. they walk through the trees towards ham house, avoid spots of mud and where the ducks are by the banks, eyeing them both down.

louis can tell harry is in his element here, just like he was in st. tropez. for some reason he’s struck with deja vu again, which would make sense as he’s been here so many times with this boy before. he tries to look over to the other side of the river at the banks there, tries to imagine meeting harry for the first time, smoke filtering out of his mouth. he’d been fifteen then. it feels like a lifetime ago.

“you’ve been quiet for too long,” louis notes after they’ve started walking through a patch of forest, the light hitting the ground like small fluttering dots. there’s a word for that in french, louis thinks, he just can’t remember it.

harry smiles, rolling up his sleeve. “ _excuse-moi_ , i’m okay,” he says, though louis didn’t ask, “i’m just trying to take everything in.”

“why?” louis barks, laughing, “we can come back a million times if it makes you bloody happy. well - maybe niall will. i can only handle so much on delicate sensibilities.”

“you and your delicate sensibilities, lou,” harry chuckles, “have to keep an eye out for them, don’t you.” it’s not a question. harry sighs then, like he’s tasting the air. “okay,” he says, “i’m ready to go home now.”

louis pulls him by his shoulder in close as they walk through an alley, find their original path now littered with runners and locals, “thank god,” louis says, though he knows it’s no secret he would have stayed the entire day if harry had wanted.

by the end of the day, nothing even remotely significant happened. and yet for some reason, louis feels as if it was important.

  
-

louis can hear his voice being called and he stirs once he realises he’s not dreaming. he sits up, this time having passed out on the armchair in his study, rubbing his eyes. he has no sense of the time, but his laptop tells him it’s just past two in the morning.

he peeks inside harry’s room, “you okay? what’s wrong?”

harry smiles like a child caught out, “just seeing if you heard.”

“don’t be a shit,” louis scolds, “christ, harry. i was asleep.”

“i’m kidding,” harry says, pulling his blanket up over his shoulders, “come lie with me. won't you, lou?  _s'il vous plaît?_ ”

louis does, shrugging out of his jumper because he knows harry will make him too warm to be comfortable. he sighs as he crawls in bed, on top of the covers, and harry finds his hand then, tangling their fingers together. he smells like medicine and shampoo and clean sweat, his face warm to touch.

“you feel hot,” louis murmurs, pressing his fingers to harry’s forehead. “you want something for it? or some water?”

harry shakes his head, rolling into close to louis and getting curls in his mouth. a song by _chopin_ has been playing on repeat all day on harry’s macbook, which louis silences by closing the lid. “such a nurse,” he sighs quietly, “taking care of me.”

“don’t you forget it, harry,” louis smiles, brushing hair away from harry’s head. they lie there quietly for a moment, the room gold underneath the single bedside lamp. harry’s breathing evens out after a while and he falls back asleep, his fingers clutching at the belly of louis’ t shirt to keep him there, like a petulant child.

“i’m only telling you this because you’re asleep,” louis murmurs into the crown of harry’s head, “and because i need to say it. i love you. that’s it. that’s the whole story.”

“i love you too,” harry sighs, and louis can feel his smile curled up on top of his skin, “i wasn’t asleep. i was pretending.”

“you’re absolutely insufferable, harry,” louis whines as harry giggles quietly, “too cheeky for your own good.”

harry’s response is a wet, soft sigh, rubbing his cheek into the fabric of louis’ shirt. " _je t'aime beaucoup_ ," he says, and louis does not need any translation: he's memorised from when harry would profess to him before, all those years ago. he can feel harry's eyelashes flutter against his collarbone; he knows when he falls asleep.

-

he dreams vividly, the kind of dream that is more of a very detailed memory than anything else. it’s the half term during louis’ first autumn at kings, but louis finds himself at st. peter’s in harry’s cramped single bed, stacks of year 12 homework in piles all over the floor, sheet music like clusterfucks of weeds underneath the bed.

it’s as if he can almost smell the way st. peter’s used to smell, like old books and cigarette smoke, like wet stone and canteen food. leather and dust. seventeen year old harry is asleep beside him. it’s early, the morning an abysmal gray and dark like it’s almost mid-afternoon, rain coming down in sheets. all the orange leaves have almost dispersed, leaving the trees skeletal and naked.

he’s blowing smoke rings out the window lazily when harry wakes up, rubbing at his eyes and making a sound that louis can only describe as a soft meow. what a kitten, honestly. harry sighs, blinking. the smell of the wet dirt and rain is intoxicating.

“what’re you doin’?” he hums, stretching his skinny arms above his head. there’s ink on his wrist, a smudged note harry probably jotted down for later.

louis looks at him blankly as harry sits up, his white t-shirt dipping and exposing his collarbone. “smoking, you daft.”

“i want some,” harry mumbles, crawling to the corner of the bed next to the window and sitting on his heels expectantly.

“no,” louis says, blowing smoking out of the corner of his mouth. harry glares at him, baby cheeks and saucer eyes pinched as he pouts at louis, folding his arms across his chest. louis smiles then, shrugging. “okay. you can have a little.”

louis motions for harry to come closer by tapping his knee with the butt of his lighter. harry sits up on his knees, taller than last time louis saw him. he wipes his mouth and his boxers hang loose around his hips, the lip of them just underneath the jut of his hipbone. louis reaches an hand out and harry sways into his touch as louis grabs onto him, anchoring.

harry crawls over again, waits expectantly, and once again looks younger than seventeen, sleepy eyed and pretty. this memory of him will always stand as a symbol of all those nights they used to spend at st. peter’s, arguing and fucking in that ridiculously tiny dorm. he must be lucid, because he can feel the inextricable sadness welling up inside of him. he wants to weep.

but that’s not how the memory goes.

“c’mere.” he soothes, and inhales harshly on his spliff, letting the smoke sit in his mouth and tickle the tiny buds on his tongue. he cups harry’s cheek, his thumb pressing on the underside of his chin, pulling him forward.

smoke spirals into harry’s mouth and louis can smell him, through the pot, can smell his shampoo, the damp air, the smell of sex. harry swallows the smoke, closing his eyes as he breathes in; his lips are shiny when he pulls away. the smoke spins in tendrils when it leaves his mouth a second later.

“i want more,” seventeen year old harry asks, and louis kisses him then, touching his face with fervor. it’s the pot, he remembers telling to himself. harry rolls his eyes, but his smile remains. "con," he remarks snidely, tenderly.

buit louis knows now that it wasn’t the pot: it never was the pot, or the coke, or the heroin, or the drinks. it never was the fast cars or the beautiful girls, or the feeling of breaking every single rule in the book. nothing ever has made his heart race the way harry has, when he thinks louis isn’t looking. nothing has ever enchanted him like harry has. no one has ever loved him like harry loves him, and no one ever will. they are holding a match to harry’s torch, white hot and blazing.

 _this boy_ , he thinks morosely, sorrow in his bones, _this beautiful fucking boy_.

he brings himself out of the dream, embarrassed and angry at the wetness that has pooled underneath his eyes. he blinks his eyes open, the sky outside a milky white. it’s completely silent, not even the hum of the city can be heard.

louis turns then, “harry?”

-

the ambulance pulls away with their lights off. louis has puked in the sink, and it reeks. zayn is holding his shoulders tightly as if louis is struggling and uncontrollable, but he’s not resisting; he’s not even moving. he’s sitting in his living room facing the window; the telly is on but it’s muted. somewhere in the distance he can hear niall on the phone, but it’s muffled and indiscernible, like there is cotton in his ears.

“drink,” zayn says, cupping his mouth and nearly choking louis with a tumbler of scotch. “drink it all, come on.”

he does. he also drinks the second glass zayn pours. he looks up one of his oldest friends, blinking slowly, his face heavy. zayn looks tired and scared, his jaw clenched. “what’s happened.”

zayn turns to him with an intense look in his eyes, one louis has seen often. “drink, first,” he says calmly, motioning for louis to drink. louis does. zayn sits down across from him, hands folded between his legs. he stares at louis like he’s a child.

“you’re in shock,” zayn starts, his voice plain and flat. “you called 999 this morning, and then you were sick on the carpet in your room. then the sink. remember?”

louis nods. he feels suddenly very afraid, like there’s something inside his bedroom that is foreboding and terrible. he looks back to zayn then, to the structure of his face. he doesn’t want to ask what happened. he doesn’t want to know.

“harry passed away, lou,” zayn says, and it sounds like something has broken in his mouth. “we think some time in the night. niall says - “ he chokes then, covering his mouth. “niall says he probably wasn’t in that much pain.”

louis takes the glass and throws it at the wall, where it shatters, and little bits of it fly in all directions across reception room floor, skidding against the hardwood. zayn’s already handing him another tumbler, which he takes gratefully.

-

he wakes up to a hand on his face. he doesn’t know where he is for a moment before he recognises the confines of niall’s bedroom, the paint on the ceiling. liam is standing over him, his eyes red.

“liam,” he tugs on liam’s wrist, holding him there. he feels hot and achy, like he went to bed with a migraine and then woke up still from the remnants of it lingering. he finds himself unable to move his face, his mouth numb from being pressed into his hand. “you’re here.”

“louis,” liam cries, sitting down on the bed beside him and pulling him up into a hug. “lou.”

“stop,” louis warns, feeling the prickings of terror washing over him, his reality setting in. “stop being upset. i can’t bare it. fucking stop it, liam.”

liam pulls away, wiping his face. he looks like he’s gotten a new tan, and he smells like an airport, like other people. “i’m sorry,” he mumbles, “niall called me. i took the first flight here.”

“i’m happy you’re here,” louis says honestly. he feets disorientated. “my head is fucking fuzzy. i can’t think straight.”  
  
liam nods, “you asked for a tranquilizer, i think. malia gave you one. niall says you’ve been sleeping for ages.”

it makes sense. louis has always wanted an escape if he could have one. his stomach lurches, and he feels the inside of his mouth flood with salt. he knows he is about to cry, and he doesn’t want liam to see. he turns away, wiping at his face. he whispers, “i don’t think i can do this.”

“you’re going to have to,” liam says gently, “i’m really sorry. i’m so sorry.”

sorry doesn’t change any of this. sorry cannot do a goddamn thing. louis sinks into liam’s shoulder, his chest shuddering as he pinches the skin on his arm. _wake up_ , he thinks to himself, panicking, _wake the fuck up_.

“don’t leave me,” louis demands, his voice a low pitched growl, “i need you. don’t even go to the loo without me. i swear to god, liam.”

“i’m here,” liam comforts. he clears his throat wetly then, wrapping his arms around louis. they haven’t hugged like this since they were boys, and louis sinks into his embrace, clutching onto him like a lifeline. he feels sick. he feels so fucking sick. “i’m here.”

“he was supposed to be getting better,” louis whispers softly. he closes his eyes, “i thought he was getting better.”

-

the funeral is in north london on the second of june, in the evening. louis lets liam drive his jaguar, unable to process anything. his head is clouded mostly with sleeping pills and take away, though he’s not often hungry. liam drives like a fucking geriatric geezer, but louis is too tired to comment on it.

niall and gemma and gemma’s grandmother are already there, waiting with plenty of other people, he’s sure. louis can't bare knowing that he will soon see gemma, see the similar features on her face. he doesn’t know how many people are going to be there. he’s left all the details up to liam, a child once more. louis sighs, leaning against the window. the fog in his head is already starting to clear, but he doesn’t take another xanax; wants to wait until the service starts. he’s trying to be responsible.

it’s just falling to dusk now, and the air between them is stifled, the summer breeze wafting by them, smelling sweetly; the errant dragon fly or mosquito hitting their windshield. he imagines himself driving down this road, bracketed on either side by tall trees, and looking over to see harry in the passenger seat, his tongue out to taste the air.

something breaks inside of him, then. he looks at his empty palms, thinking, _his hands, his hands. they fit mine_.

“stop the car,” louis says quietly, and liam glances at him. it’s a testament to how awful louis must look, despite the fresh cut yves st. laurent suit, because liam doesn’t argue, just slows down and pulls over on the side of the road. there’s no one coming on either side for miles.

louis crawls out of the car then, standing in the middle of road and just breathing, sticking his tongue out. the wind doesn’t taste like anything as it breezes past his open mouth.

he starts to scream. it’s so loud that he can’t hear anything else, his body like a bullet ricocheting a hundred miles through the air, his veins struggling against this skin, the sound that propels from his body like a clap of thunder. he grips at air, struggling with his hands and everything they’ve ever failed at. he’s failed. he’s fucking failed.

he keeps screaming when liam grabs a hold of him, unable to stop now that he’s started. it starts to rain slightly, wetting the tops of louis’ cheeks with it’s warm drizzle. he reaches up, hands grasping for it, but he doesn’t struggling against liam, a solid presence against his back. he grips at his arms instead, sinking into them, hoping liam will hold him up.

 _it’s over_ , he says to himself. when he stops yelling, his voice shot and hoarse, the road is met with silence save for liam’s harsh breathing and louis’ wet cough.

it’s over.

-

july 2016

something hits louis’ desk hard, shocking out of his reverie. he sits up, glaring at the culprit. niall is standing over him, his mouth a thin line. louis pushes his highball out of the way, picking up the manila folder. it’s thick and dense, heavy, like a manuscript. he eyes it, throwing it back on his desk. he doesn’t remembering falling asleep, but he must have. his grief sits like a heavy stone in his chest, a reminder with reins on his heart when he breathes.

“what’s this?” he motions to it, rubbing his eyes.

“ _that_ ,” zayn’s voice sounds from behind him his voice, his face ugly with anger, “according to harry’s will, is something that belongs to you.”

he looks ready to spit fire. louis has no fucking idea what he’s talking about. he looks to niall then, waiting for an answer. the sun is hitting the top of the folder, hot on louis’ hand. it’s been a suffocating, miserable heat already and then day has barely begun. louis needs a second drink; the ice melted in his first one.

niall licks his lips, “harry’s will was finally executed. he’s left you this. it’s a book.”

“not just any book,” liam says quietly. louis spins around to face all three of them, surprised to see them all at the same time: a rare occurrence. they all stand like pillars in different corners of the room: zayn is seething, liam his polar opposite, sad and reserved, like he's ready to accept penance. always the martyr, liam. niall has aged ten years in a month, but at least he finally looks his age, blond hair trimmed shorter in recent years. he looks fitter, better than the rest of them. “harry wrote it.”

“he never said,” louis says flatly. he doesn’t want to talk about harry.

“no, he wouldn’t have, i don’t think,” zayn glares at liam, “since he wrote it about us. there’s pages in there of shit from years ago. things that happened when we were boys, at college and at uni. most of it he was there for - but some things we told him in confidence. things we don’t want people to know.”

louis can think of a few things - more than a few things off the top of his head, but he shrugs. niall hesitates, sharing a look with liam and zayn before he speaks again, as if he’s holding a lit grenade in his mouth. “in his will it states that you can do whatever you please with it, lou, but he indicated that it was ready for publication, before he...”

“then i’ll publish it,” louis decides simply, picking it up in his hands. he hopes it smells like paper and ink and not harry’s shampoo, not his hands. he doesn’t bring it up to his mouth to inspect it. zayn curses under his breath and louis looks over then, regarding him tiredly.

“it could ruin us, lou,” liam explains gently like louis is idiot, “there are things in there about - our families - and our businesses. niall could get in trouble for tax evasion. zayn’s marriage is at stake. our privacy - is at risk. we have to think about this.”

“no, i don’t think i will,” louis disagrees, eyeing his best friend. he shrugs lethargically, rubbing his eye. “change the names or the ages. i’ll get an editor. eleanor will call one of her friends in publishing. that’s me fulfilling my part. i won’t hear another word against it, lads, or i’ll kick you all out of my flat.”

“you should read it,” niall says quietly, but he doesn’t protest otherwise. “honestly, his retelling makes us look _good_. what a fucking wake up call.”

louis’ gut lurches, the way it’s done so since the month before. he’s spent a large portion of the past six years specifically not thinking about him. it’s irony louis cannot handle, how only now harry is the only thing that occupies his brain. he wants to reach out to niall, first twin-less, now brother-less. _later_ , he thinks. they’ll take a trip to the countryside. maybe devon. this is what boys like them do. they retreat, lick their wounds and re emerge.

louis slides the first page out of it’s folder. the title page reads in french so he flips to the second page, typed out in tiny print. he reads out loud, “‘ _louis’ fingers feel tingly and his throat is hoarse and aches_.’”

he starts to laugh then, clutching it in his hand. this boy, he thinks roughly to himself, feeling the prickle of tears in his eyes as he giggles behind his hand. he squints then again at the title, murmuring under his breath. his french was always terrible, and harry knew it. “what does ‘ _coeur d'enfants_ ’ mean?”

louis pictures harry’s face then, the bright redness of his lips, the way he crossed his legs at the ankle whenever he would lay out sunbathing in st. tropez, or hidden by a parasol in hyde park. the way harry used to gaze at him, lids drawn at half-mast, mouth caught in a laugh. the way louis watched him grow from boy to man in the span of years, the way he watched his heart get wrenched from between his ribs. he can’t get the image of harry curled up on his chest, fingers gripping his night shirt out of his head. he mourns, more than anything, all the time they lost out on, too stupid to see past their own hands.

he pictures harry writing their story, tucked away in a cafe in paris, at nineteen, twenty, grown and lovely and untainted by louis and his arrogance, his cruelty and control. he wishes harry had told him, had said, but the he wouldn't have, would he. he was always listening, and trying to love them all, despite their faults. louis sighs heavily at the terribleness of the thought; he thinks of harry because there is no other option. but louis is not sure how he’s supposed to go on. there are these hours now that he can survive, but there are always hours after that.

niall smiles, for what seems like the first time in weeks, “harry’s a cheeky bastard,” he says fondly, and louis appreciates the gentle gesture of using present tense, a small victory. haz is alive in their memories, “it means _hearts of children_.”

-

june 2026

 _nocturne no.2_ trinkles quietly in louis’ car stereo just over the hum of the engine. he guns his audi, taking a sharp turn through richmond’s high street, trying to avoid a puddle. he did just get the car cleaned.

his phone buzzes on the passenger seat, but he doesn’t pick it up. he’s supposed to fly out tomorrow to new york for a conference, and he knows that’s what the call is about; eleanor can wait until tomorrow, when he’s good and ready to return her message.

it’s been a wet june compared the ones before it, but today is bright and dry, a sharp chill that louis appreciates today. it makes the air smell cool, if that’s bloody possible. he passes a waterstones on the drive up richmond hill, better kept than the rest of them because it’s fucking southwest london and they’re trendy, old money arseholes. there’s a poster in the window for coeur des enfants, a celebratory ten year anniversary edition already for sale.

louis finds himself biting his lip, trying not to think about it. it had been released nearly a year to the date after he had received it from niall, shooting straight up on must-read lists until it managed to climb the new york times list. eleanor had submitted it for him, her friends in publishing had done a job with changing names and dates until zayn had cooled his head a bit. he certainly breathed well after he had his lawyers draw up a legal contract binding their silence. there were whispers, of course, but they remained faint and without much evidence.

five silver spoon boys living wild in the closest circle of london’s elite; lies, greed and filthy behavior abundant; drugs and alcohol and vulgarity occurring at an alarming rate. niall was right, when louis had finally read it back to back: it did make them look better than they were. it wasn’t with malicious intent that made harry told the truth: he wrote with love. he bloody loved them all.

louis knows this. at the end of harry’s last chapter, levi and henry give up their beloved life they had in london, shedding their socialite skin in search for a new beginning. some critics called it disappointing, a dopey ending, while others swooned at their sacrifice; all in the name of love. they fly to france, where henry writes novels and adopts a cat while levi opens his own vineyard in normandy; quiet and slow, bright like the sun. perhaps this is what harry dreamed of having himself; perhaps he was just having a laugh. louis will never get to ask.

louis is comforted in knowing, as much it burns like acid in his mouth, that somewhere, in another universe, they got the ending they deserved. somewhere, harry, or henry, or whatever the fuck his name would be - somewhere harry is laughing. louis likes to think he’s happy.

he pulls onto the side of the road near richmond terrace, strolling down through the gardens and crossing the road into the green fields of petersham. he walks along the river, staring at the puddles and the high tide, the river thames swirling around the bend.

louis can feel his own breath in his chest, the expanding of air in his lungs. his brain sputters and falls silent then, the usual noise of the city disappearing and filled with the sound of running water, a bird, gravel and rocks under his feet. it’s peaceful.

since harry died there has been a softness about him; louis won’t deny it. he knows there is a scar on his soul a mile wide, knows there is a blackness about his heart that no drug or drink can fix. a tiredness that refuses to be remedied by sleep. he continues on. he lives. he lives around the elephants in the room, the ghosts in his garden, the way he’ll wake up convinced for a moment that it’s harry tinkering in the kitchen, even years later.

eleanor has been faithful to him and his grievances, the lingering skeletons in louis’ closet. she is consistent and lovely as she was when they at kings when he was nineteen. come autumn he will have a son.

he only ventures out here once a year; he fucking hates southwest. that will never change. he walks through the trail, under small patches of trees and past ham house until he comes to a spot where he can see the steeple of st. peter’s just out of a view, calling back to a time when they had first met. louis likes to think that in another universe, their story is starting again on those riverbanks, louis smoking his cigarette with a bright, young stranger.

louis imagines turning then, looking over the pasture back towards his car, hand shielding the sun from his eyes. he would see a distant figure across the green, coming closer to him until he realised it was harry. in his vision, harry is always wearing a lavender jumper with the sleeves rolled up, the same one that is packed away in one of louis’ school trunks. he remembers the last day they had come here together that late may morning, how harry had wanted to memorise every tree, every ray of sunlight on the leaves, and louis had let him.

even from afar he would be able to tell that harry was smiling, as he came closer and closer. harry wouldn’t have aged, of course, still twenty, long legged, and beautiful, a memory of a memory of a dream. he would waved back; called out for harry to hurry up until he nearly reached the fence, green eyes shining with amusement. 

louis does not let the fantasy go farther than that.

-

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some translations (thanks to those who commented!)
> 
> mon vieux - my pal  
> garçon or - golden boy  
> louer garçon - rent boy  
> casse-toi - go away, or fuck off  
> excuse-moi - forgive me, excuse me, etc  
> con - cunt, asshole...you know  
> s'il vous plaît - please  
> je t'aime beaucoup - i love you so much  
> coeur d'Enfants - hearts of children, of course.

**Author's Note:**

> If there are any warnings that you do not see, let me know and I will happily add them.
> 
> Come find me on tumblr @odetopsych-e !


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